


(No) Places of Safety

by withthekeyisking



Series: Eating Away at What is Good [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Blackmail, Branding, Bruce is trying to be a good parent, Character Death, Collars, Conditioning, Creepy Roman Sionis, Daddy Kink, Deal with a Devil, Depression, Dissociation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Hallucinations, Inappropriate Use of Guns, Loss of Identity, M/M, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Protective Jason Todd, Roman Sionis is a Bastard, Semi-Public Sex, Slurs, Sub Dick Grayson, Subdrop, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Very slow recovery, Whipping, practice safe BDSM kiddos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 157,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick never really understood the meaning of the phrasedeal with the devilbefore, how anyone could get themselves wrapped up in something so obviously rigged against them.He gets it now.Fortunately—orunfortunately, depending on how you look at it—there are a lot of people who are unhappy with the new status quo.(~on hiatus~)
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Roman Sionis
Series: Eating Away at What is Good [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1616026
Comments: 1928
Kudos: 1433





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I received a lot of comments on Chapter 3 of [WotA](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458118/chapters/53662558), all in varying levels of _WHAT THE FUCK_ in regards to the cliffhanger that I _did_ intend to leave as is. But as we've long established, my dear readers, I possess no self-control and am easily swayed. So here this is.
> 
> Dedicated to [greyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyheart) for refusing to let the cliffhanger at the end of WotA go and figuratively tapping me on the shoulder until I gave in.
> 
> Also my thanks to _each and every one of you_ for all the love (and the hate 😉), for it sustains my soul 💜

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to [mayfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfriend) for listing out some angsty Dick shit in a comment that I immediately needed to include in this fic when I decided to write it.

His phone calls are screened.

Roman says it's for his protection, to keep the media off his back, to make sure he doesn't have to talk to anyone trying to get to Black Mask. But he knows there's a reason he hasn't spoken to any of his family in a while, and it's not because they decided to stop calling.

He still works at the gymnasium, that was one thing he refused to let go of, but the number of classes he teaches has gone down by more than half. He lives in Gotham now, after all, and the daily commute is too much. He's _told_ it's too much.

He can read between the lines.

Lou and Joseph are the men assigned to be his personal guards. When he's told that, he mentally corrects their job description from _guard_ to _watch._ They're his minders as much as they're there for his protection.

Lou is exactly what you'd expect from a mobster's lackey, with a mean frown perpetually on his face, nose crooked from being broken one too many times, eyes that are a little too small for the rest of his face. He's not short but not tall, with a small brain and big muscles that he wears short-sleeved shirts to show off. He's the type of man that if you saw him out and about, you'd want to cross the street to avoid being in his path.

If he wasn't an expertly trained vigilante, he'd probably be anxious too.

Joseph, by contrast, has an actual brain on his shoulders. He's not as obviously muscled as Lou but he's taller and better trained, ex-military. If he was in another career path, he'd probably be considered handsome, with sandy blond hair and a sharp jawline. Instead, he's got a scar down the side of his face that he received from one of Bruce's batarangs two years ago. He only joined the False Facers in the first place because his daughter is sick, and Roman pays well for loyalty.

They're also both _extremely_ straight, not even glancing at his ass when he bends down to test how much of a threat his "guards" would be to him.

He knows why Roman chose these two to be his almost constant companions; not only will they never try to make a move, but they contrast well. Lou is the gruff one, the one with the clearest association to Black Mask's operations, the one he's supposed to be wary of. Joseph is the patient one, not really a bad guy at heart, someone he could consider an _ally_ in this fucked up situation.

But he knows better. He knows that Lou is nothing but a grunt, not too different from some of the corrupt cops he worked with when he worked for the BPD. And he knows that just because Joseph is nice to him doesn't mean he's his friend, knows that he's extremely loyal to Roman and would report on him in a _second_ if he thought he was misbehaving.

He doesn't _have_ any allies amongst the liars and killers and thieves that make up Roman's men. He won't allow himself to be deluded into thinking he does.

It's been five weeks and three days since he sat down at a table across from Black Mask in his apartment and signed himself away in exchange for his family's safety.

Roman has taken almost everything from him, even his name. Dick hasn't been called _Dick_ in five weeks and three days. He hasn't put on the Nightwing suit in just as long.

Roman has taken almost everything, and keeps wanting more.

And Dick lets him.

* * *

Like a middle-aged man with brand new Porsche, Roman likes showing him off.

They go out to high-class restaurants, to the theater, to the opera, to any event Roman is invited to that includes putting Dick in an expensive suit and trotting him around for people to admire. And Dick smiles at the masses and accepts the compliments and ignores the derisive comments and pretends that Dickie Wayne has entered an exciting relationship with Roman Sionis, a not-so-secret mobster who's yet to be caught for tax evasion.

(Roman snorted when Dick "casually" asked about his book keeping, and then made it clear that he turns in his tax returns on time like a normal civilian, no plans to follow the path of Al Capone. A shame, that. Because he's disgustingly good at not giving the police enough evidence to stick him in jail. Or if he does, he has enough judges in his pocket that it's a non-issue.

Dick's been giving this a lot of thought.)

And after the dinner or show or event is over, Roman takes him home and fucks him, how "good" he's been that day determining how hard Roman goes. Most of the time, anyway. Sometimes Roman's just in the mood to cause some pain, and Dick's his favorite canvas.

Of course, sex isn't just restricted to a nighttime activity. It's an anytime-Roman-wants activity. And Dick can't pretend he doesn't take pleasure from a lot of the stuff they do, nor is he trying to. If this is his new normal, if this is the way his life works now, then he's going to try to enjoy the bits he can, because if he doesn't—well, then his entire life is just misery. And that's not a path he wants to go down.

The worst times are when Roman has him sit in during his _business_ meetings. Because normally, the things he hears in those would be the evidence he took to Bruce or to the Commissioner to get Black Mask and his men put away, but he can't do that now. One word of Roman's dealings to the authorities would end with his family's identities being blasted to the world.

So instead, Dick has to sit there and listen and know that Roman knows what he's doing, that he's taking pleasure from Dick's discomfort, from the sick feeling churning in the hero's gut. It's one more way for Roman to shove the new status quo in his face, to demonstrate the control he has over Dick.

As if Dick doesn't already understand perfectly well. Asshole.

The few times a week he still gets to teach gymnastics are the best parts of his life now. For just a few hours three days a week he gets to be Dick Grayson, acrobat, instead of Richard Wayne, Black Mask's shiny little twinkie. He gets to help children laugh and smile and become their best selves. He gets to dust his hands with chalk and close his eyes and _leap,_ trusting his skills to catch him.

It might not be off skyscrapers with a grapple in his hand, but it's the closest he's going to get, and he refuses to wallow during his limited free time when instead he could be at peace. Most of the time he even manages to forget Joseph sitting off to the side and Lou waiting in the car out front.

The absolutely awful days are the ones where his family tries to speak to him in person.

According to Roman, he hasn't _earned_ the privilege of engaging with them yet, which means when Tim shows up at the gym right as Dick's lesson is ending, or when Bruce is at one of the events they attend, Dick has to let his guards step in and block the way to Dick. He has to ignore the way his brother desperately calls his name. He has to pretend his heart doesn't break.

Because they're depending on him. They don't know they are, but they are. And Dick will always do everything in his power to protect his family.

* * *

It's been six weeks when Dick sits down at the dinner table and says, "I'd like to revisit the subject of meeting with my family."

Roman doesn't look up from the tablet in his hand, doesn't put down the glass of wine in his other, as if the conversation isn't worth his time. It makes Dick grit his teeth, especially because he _knows_ Roman is paying attention to him. The farce is only to insult him, to make him wait, to allow Roman to keep control of the conversation.

"Oh?"

Calming breath in, calming breath out. "Yes."

There's a solid two minutes where Roman doesn't respond, tapping away at his tablet, and Dick fights the urge to roll his eyes; one of the most basic tactics in the book—make your opponent wait. But Dick doesn't fidget, doesn't allow himself to get restless. There's no rushing Roman when he wants to drag things out, and an attempt to do so wouldn't do Dick any favors.

So he picks up his fork and knife and begins to eat the chicken on his plate; Roman's chef isn't as good as Alfred— _no one_ will ever compare to Alfred—but she's still pretty damn good. Meals at the penthouse certainly aren't unpleasant affairs.

Well. They're not if Roman behaves himself.

Eventually, Roman puts his tablet down—locking it, always locking it—and turns his sharp gaze to Dick, slowly taking a sip of wine. Dick puts down his utensils and leans back in his chair, perfect posture. There's no slouching at Black Mask's table.

"And why do you think you've earned visitation?" Roman asks him, tone casual like he's commenting on the weather instead of negotiating his captive's privileges.

 _Because I have,_ the childish part of Dick wants to say. Instead, he takes a moment to make sure his point is articulate so that Roman can't say he's too emotional for a decision like this.

"I haven't disobeyed a single order the entire time I've been here," Dick says calmly. "I keep to the schedule you set out for me, I make sure no one in the public suspects anything strange about our relationship—" he practiced saying that line before so he wouldn't hesitate over the word _relationship,_ "—I ignore my family when they try to reach out, I never speak out of turn during your meetings. I've been good. I've been loyal. I've kept to my end of the deal and then some. You can set whatever parameters you want for the visit, and I'll follow them perfectly. I'd just like some time with my siblings."

Roman considers him for a moment, taking another sip of wine. Dick waits patiently.

Roman says, "Come here."

Oh, great. A test. Lovely.

Dick follows the instruction, standing up and then pushing his chair in before stepping up to the head of the table where Roman sits. The man looks him over lazily, gaze sliding up and down his body. In the past, that kind of focus from Roman would've sent a shiver up Dick's spine. He's too used to it by now for only a look to have much affect on him.

Pushing back from the table and spreading his legs wide, Roman says, "On your knees."

Dick blinks; is that it? A blowjob? That can't be all Roman intends for Dick to _prove_ he can behave. Dick's not nearly optimistic enough to believe that.

All the same, Dick does as he's told, folding gracefully to his knees in front of Roman. His hands fold automatically in the small of his back, a learned posture that is now second nature, and waits for further instruction.

Roman hums, pleased, and strokes the side of Dick's face, the touch deceptive in its gentleness. He runs his thumb over Dick's bottom lip and Dick parts his lips in response, knowing that's the desired response. He's rewarded with Roman's lips quirking into something of a smile as he presses his thumb into Dick's mouth.

Dick doesn't need the verbal instruction—especially since he's trying to show he's a good little boy—to close his mouth around the digit and suck, swirling his tongue like he would if this were Roman's cock. The taste of the man's leather gloves is a familiar one by this point, barely worth noting, and carries faint traces of gun oil and the sauce the chicken sits in.

Roman's eyes darken with lust, and he pushes his thumb further into Dick's mouth before retracting, wiping the excess spit off on Dick's chin. "Take off your shirt, sweetheart," he says as he reaches behind himself to grab something out of his suit jacket pocket, which is hanging on the back of the chair.

Dick undoes the buttons of his blue button-down—the same shade as the blue on his Nightwing suit, chosen specifically by Roman—and pulls it off, along with his undershirt. He folds them both and places them on the floor, then turns back to Roman to resume his previous position.

He freezes when he sees the gun Roman has pointed at him.

Automatically, Dick's years as a vigilante push information to the front of his mind. A regular Glock 19 handgun, 10+1 rounds, safety currently off. At this distance of barely a foot, Dick wouldn't have time to dodge before the bullet fired and hit him smack dab in the middle of his forehead. At this distance, the force of the bullet would rip his head right open.

"Roman?" Dick says hesitantly, eyeing the gun. His hands twitch behind him, instincts screaming at him to disarm the threat and get some distance between them.

He can't do that, though. Because he's not Nightwing here, and Roman's made it very clear that there would be consequences if he ever rose his hand against the man.

"Something wrong?" Roman asks casually. His aim drifts downwards and then forward, the cold metal pressing against Dick's naval. Dick swallows as Roman drags the gun up his stomach, up his chest, up the line of his neck—catching momentarily on the collar around his throat, the collar he always wears when not in public—and then stopping against his lips.

"Open up, sweetheart."

Dick's eyes go wide, incredulous and panicked, and he leans back a little to try to get away from the loaded weapon.

Roman tuts at him. "You know I don't like repeating myself, Richard," he says. He waits, looking expectant and calm.

Dick swallows again, gaze flicking from Roman's face to the gun and then back again, looking for any sort of indecision or sign of a really bad joke. But there isn't any, just Roman prepared to either wait him out or punish him for disobedience. Dick doesn't want to be punished; he wants to see his family.

So, ever so cautiously, Dick parts his lips, allowing Roman to push the barrel into his mouth.

The taste and smell of metal and oil assault his senses as the gun presses further, forcing his tongue flat and his jaw wider to allow room for the object to enter. His tongue flutters uselessly, trying to make sense of the foreign object. The metal is unforgiving, forceful where flesh would give, and the trigger guard catches uncomfortably on his lips as the muzzle nudges at the back of Dick's throat, forcing him to suppress his gag reflex.

"You know what to do, baby," Roman murmurs, watching him with dark eyes.

Dick pants around the metal, mouth filled with saliva, and then hesitantly closes his lips around the gun. He sucks at the hard object, and the action produces a loud slurping sound against the barrel, one that makes Roman smile and begin fucking the gun in and out of Dick's mouth like he would with his cock.

"There you go," Roman coos. "Good boy."

Dick's eyelids flutter and lets himself let go, lets himself focus on just this one little task. The sucking noises he makes around the metal are obscene, and his cheeks heat at what he must look like, kneeling shirtless with his hands at his back despite not being bound, collar around his neck, and Black Mask's handgun fucking in and out of his mouth as he sucks on it like a whore.

There's pressure against his groin, and Dick groans, bucking up into the touch. Roman chuckles and presses his foot even more firmly against Dick's growing erection, grinding his expensive shoe down to an almost painful degree. The gun shoves in roughly, pushing against the back of Dick's throat, and he fights not to gag, throat protesting against the hard metal.

He hears a zipper and opens his eyes, watching Roman take himself in hand and stroke leisurely, eyes fixed on Dick, taking him in. The single-minded focus on him makes Dick moan, humping up against Roman's shoe, sucking on the gun. Drool spills out of Dick's mouth, dripping down his chin.

"You're a _wreck,_ sweetheart," Roman tells him in a tone that would be fond if it wasn't rough with lust. "My gorgeous, _gorgeous wreck."_

Roman's hand speeds up around his cock, thrusting the gun into Dick's mouth in a matching pace, and then comes with a quiet grunt, spilling himself over Dick's face.

As soon as he's done, he yanks the gun out of Dick's mouth, drawing a small sound of pain as the trigger guard rips at his bottom lip. Dick pants and licks his lips, his own blood and the salty tang of Roman's cum hitting his taste buds.

"You want to come, baby?" Roman says lowly. "Go ahead; take what you want."

Dick looks up at the man through his fringe, sticky with cum, and then maintains eye contact as he grinds up against Roman's two-thousand-dollar shoe, seeking his orgasm.

A slow smile spreads across Roman's face. "What a good little slut you are." Dick pants, tongue hanging out of his mouth. "Oh, baby, so good for me."

Dick comes with a shout, cock pulsing as he spills himself in his pants. The feeling makes him grimace, but he's too tired at the moment to feel properly disgusted, and when Roman tilts his head up to pull him into a deep kiss, he takes it pliantly, head filling with pleasant chemicals.

Roman pulls away after a moment, redoing his pants and standing up. He glances over the gun and flicks on the safety _(Christ,_ there was a ready-to-fire gun in Dick's _mouth),_ then tucks it back into his jacket pocket and begins to walk away.

Dick stares after him for a moment in incomprehension, feeling dizzy, and then calls out, _"Roman."_

The mobster pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at Dick's kneeling form. He looks perfectly put together, in control, a disturbing contrast to how wrecked Dick feels. Dick wishes situations like this weren't as familiar to him as they are.

"Yes?" Roman asks curiously.

Dick shakes his head a little. "Can I see my family? Please?"

Roman's eyes glow. "I'll set something up," he agrees magnanimously. Dick slumps in relief, shoulders curving. He still has his hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't know why.

He startles when he hears Roman clear his throat, sure that the man had left, and then raises his head to look at him again.

"What do you say?" Roman prompts, waving an expectant hand.

Dick closes his eyes. "Thank you, Daddy."

* * *

Once a week, Tim allows himself a longer-than-usual lunchbreak. He doesn't go to the fancy little restaurant across the street this is expected of him—and that he often does make an appearance at—but instead goes downtown, making his way to the Blue Moon Diner.

When he first started as Robin, Dick showed him this place. It's vigilante friendly, so if you're on patrol and it's midnight and you just really want a milkshake, the staff at Blue Moon won't blink twice to fulfill the order. Apparently, Dick started going when _he_ was Robin, and then took Jason, and then Tim, and then everyone in their family who came after. It might be the to-go place while in costume, but Tim likes it during the daytime, too.

So once a week, he comes here. He sits in a booth in the back with cracked red pleather and orders something that is in no way good for him, and then he does anything other than work. He just started binging a show on Netflix, some random comedy show that doesn't take too many braincells to enjoy, and has the next few episodes downloaded on his iPad, so today is a TV day.

He's fifteen minutes into the episode when someone slides into the booth across from him.

Tim frowns and raises his head, prepared to ask the person to leave him alone, but he freezes when he sees who it is.

"Hiya, Timmy," Dick greets with a wide smile, hand darting across the table to steal a french-fry and then popping it in his mouth. "Is that Brooklyn 99? I _love_ that show. Where are you?"

Tim can only stare at him. It's been _weeks_ since any of them have spoken to Dick, just over a month and a half. They've all tried, calling and texting, and any time he was in public they tried to make contact. Tim even made the trip out to Bludhaven and waited outside Dick's work to have the opportunity to find out what the hell was going on.

But he'd been ignored. He'd been _stopped._ A couple of meatheads getting in his way, threatening to fucking _restrain_ him, and Dick in the background with a clenched jaw and fists, walking away from him.

None of them have any idea what's going on, why Dick decided to cut off contact and join the dark side to become Black Mask's permanent companion, shown off like a favored _pet_ at places around the city.

Or, Tim should correct himself; _most_ of them have no idea what's going on, because Bruce is doing that grouchy thing when he's feeling guilty about something and is being _very_ tight-lipped on the subject of Dick, and Jason seems even more pissed at B than usual. Plus there was that night in the batcave, the night before Dick vanished, when Jason punched Bruce and Black Mask was brought up and Dick begged Tim and Damian to not witness whatever was happening.

Damian's been even more of a terror the last six weeks than he usually is, and that's something Tim didn't really think was possible.

"What the hell?" Tim says, blinking rapidly like maybe Dick's just a hallucination his sleep-deprived brain spat out. He _did_ think he actually slept well last night, but these things have a way of sneaking up on you.

Dick's expression dims ever-so-slightly, and for barely a second, before he's still wearing that perfectly charming Dick Grayson smile.

"Timmy—"

"Dick, where the hell have you _been?"_ Tim asks incredulously. "What the hell have you been doing? We've tried to get in contact with you, _hell_ we've tried just _talking_ to you, and nothing!" He knows he's raising his voice, that they're getting some strange looks, but Dick doesn't tell him to quiet down, smile fading to a serious expression. "What the fuck are you doing with _Black Mask?"_

Dick looks down at the table, brow furrowed, fingers tapping restlessly. Tim waits, heart pounding, for whatever explanation his brother is going to put forth. Because there has to be a reason. There has to be some explanation. He knows Dick. Dick wouldn't just decide to give up everything for a _mobster_ like fucking _Roman Sionis._

When Dick looks back up, his eyes are sad, the line of his shoulders heavy, like he's carrying a tremendous weight that none of them can see.

"I have five hours to see you guys," Dick says softly. "We can do whatever you guys want, anything at all. But that five hours is contingent on you guys not prying." Tim's eyes widen. "So you can ask me questions, and I can leave, or you can just pretend everything is okay for just five hours and play hooky with me."

Tim swallows heavily. It goes against his nature to let this problem lie, especially when Dick sounds so defeated, when there's something _so obviously wrong._ But he...misses his brother. He misses Dick like _crazy,_ they all do, and the idea that his questions would force Dick away again—he can't.

"Okay," Tim replies, just as soft, and offers a hesitant smile. "It's good to see you, Dick."

Dick's blinding smile returns, and it feels so much more real than the one before. He gets to his feet, tossing some money down onto the table, _way_ more than Tim's cheap burger and fries cost. Tim files the wad of cash under the Ask No Questions file in his brain. He has a feeling it'll be a very full file by the end of the five hours.

Tim packs up his bag and follows Dick to the door. "Where are we going?" he asks.

Dick slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. "You were my first stop, baby bird," he tells him, head tilting up towards the bright noon sun. It glints off some sort of necklace around his neck. "We've got a few more siblings to pick up. Next stop—Gotham Academy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter every Thursday, my dudes 😁💜
> 
> I remain [boyblunder-thedarkheir](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and #0874 on discord, you're welcome to bug me at any time!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay show of hands, who thought I was totally not gonna keep to my proclaimed posting schedule? 🙋
> 
> Also Birds of Prey was amazing, reminded me how super gay I am, and made me see Roman as a bottom, which was hard to get out of my head. Goddamn.
> 
> Anyways, here's Chapter 2 of a story with a very much _not_ bottom!Roman!

_Everything is okay._

These words are on repeat in Dick's mind, reminding his too-fast heart that he doesn't have anything to be afraid of right now. He's in a car with his little brother, no guards keeping an eye on him (yet), no Roman over his shoulder, nobody he has to impress or give a big performance for. No, all he has to do is sit in the car with Tim and drive to Gotham Academy.

_Everything is okay. You're okay. Tim is okay. Everyone is okay._

He'd been afraid, for a few moments, that Tim would press. That he wouldn't settle for Dick's ultimatum, and Dick would have to leave. He can imagine the field day Roman would have with that, if Dick appeared back at the penthouse five hours before the five hour deadline. _Aw, sweetheart, did they just not want to see you? Guess they love you less than you love them._

Dick's hands tighten on the steering wheel. He can see Tim notice the movement out of the corner of his eye.

_Everything is perfectly okay._

"This is a nice car," Tim comments, offhand and casual and thus anything but.

Dick hums his agreement. It _is_ a nice car; Bruce has countless flashy cars that he uses for appearances in the garage, but he never really let Dick or the others drive them (for good reason, they had a tendency to take joy rides). Roman, on the other hand, considered Dick's sensible car an affront, and immediately bought him another, this time expensive and flashy and fast and really, _really_ nice.

Dick hates that he likes it. He hates even more that he's driven around ninety percent of the time, and thus rarely gets to actually _use_ this beautiful piece of machinery. It's a crime.

"It's the middle of the school day, you'll have to pull him out of class," Tim says, which Dick also knows. That's purposeful; less likely to garner Bruce's attention right away if Damian isn't expected to be home for a while still. Besides, Dick has the ability to pull Damian out of class, just like any parents at the school would. He enrolled Dami at Gotham Academy. He drove him to his first day. He went to the parent-teacher conferences.

Bruce coming back to life hadn't changed Dick's role in Damian's life by very much. It breaks Dick's heart that he hasn't been able to see his kid the past six weeks. He's been trying to downplay that part around Roman—he doesn't want the psychopath to know how truly important Damian is, because he'll use it against him, just like everything else—but that doesn't change the fact that Damian has an art show in two weeks that Dick promised three months ago he'd attend, and he has no clue how he's going to get to go.

"Weather's nice today," Tim comments next, and Dick wants to hit himself, just now noticing the tension lining his little brother's body. He's been so wrapped in his own thoughts and anxieties that he's left Tim sitting there in practical silence with his big brother who's now dating a mobster. Tim's trying to avoid the subject, trying to act natural, and Dick's really not helping.

So Dick flashes a smile at him and says, "Yeah! Really nice, actually, especially considering the time of year, so I thought we'd do something outdoors. Central Park is hosting one of those game events, you know the ones? I thought we could go to that."

Tim smiles hesitantly back as they turn onto the street the academy sits on. "You took me to one of those when I was Robin," he remembers, and then smirks a little. "You _tried_ to take Damian last year, and he couldn't have cared less."

Dick rolls his eyes. "Hey, that is _so_ not true!" he protests, probably a bit more exaggerated than he normally would. "Damian _pretended_ to hate that I was taking him, but he was secretly excited. We just didn't get to actually start any of the events because a fucking bank robbery happened that we had to go handle."

Tim snorts. "Well I'm sure you'll be making his dreams come true today, then, making him play games in the park with the unwashed masses." He glances out the window as they park, and then adds, "You know, he's really not gonna be happy you grabbed me first."

Dick grimaces and switches the car off, getting out. He'd considered it would be a problem before going to grab Tim, but Gotham Academy is between the Blue Moon Diner and the studio where Cass is about to have dance class, so it made sense to pick them up in a line instead of doubling back. He didn't want to waste all of their time together driving back and forth between places just to let Damian be first.

"Yeah," he says, sighing, "I know." He heads around the car towards the front gates and tosses over his shoulder, "Wait here, would you? We'll be right back."

Tim laughs at him. "It's cute that you think I'd want to be present when the brat learns I was first pick."

Dick pauses and looks back to his little brother with a frown. Tim seems uncomfortable all of a sudden, like he didn't mean to say that, so Dick decides to let it slide, jogging up the front steps.

"Hi," he says with a charming smile to the main office desk receptionist, whose cheeks flush a little. "I'm Dick Grayson, here to pick up Damian Wayne."

The receptionist cocks her head a little. "Only family..."

Dick's smile doesn't falter, but he _is_ surprised with her lack of familiarity with the Wayne family politics. He's so used to all of his information being known to everyone in Gotham; it's refreshing to not have someone immediately associate _Grayson_ with _Wayne._

"If you check his file, you'll see I'm listed as his primary familial contact," Dick says smoothly. Bruce has been back to life for over a year and Dick still holds that spot in all of Damian's files. None of them have ever talked about it.

The receptionist checks the computer and then asks him for an ID. When she's confirmed that he is who he says he is and he has a right to pull Damian from school, she smiles brightly.

"Alright, he's in room 207 right now. Let me just call the teacher—"

"No need," Dick interrupts with a grin. "I'm gonna surprise him. Don't worry, I went here, I know the way!"

He's out of the office before she can complain, and takes the stairs two at a time to hit the second floor, then strolls down the hall to the mentioned classroom. The door's open, the sounds of talking reaching out into the hallway, and Dick leans against the doorjamb with a smile as he looks inside.

Damian is sitting in the front row, of course, and is currently in discussion with the girl next to him about something he's taking _very_ seriously, gesturing to the papers on his desk. From what's written on the white board, Dick can put together that this is a math class, and watching Damian evidently try to explain the problem to his seatmate is pretty adorable.

And relatable; Dick was quite excellent at math in his time at Gotham A. Even starred on the mathletes team.

Ever the excellently trained boy, Damian feels eyes on him almost immediately and looks up with a narrowed gaze. When he spots Dick his eyes go wide, lips parting, before he schools his expression into something unbothered.

Dick just offers his little brother a smile— _fuck_ is it good to see him—and then enters the classroom, approaching the teacher. He recognizes her from his time as a student, and gets pulled into a conversation about how he's been doing, which makes him ball his hands into fists inside his jacket pockets. The time he has with his siblings is limited, and Roman won't care if technically someone else is taking up his time; the five hour limit will remain a five hour limit.

Eventually, he extracts himself from the conversation and heads back for the door, the teacher telling Damian to pack up. Smart boy that Damian is, the kid is ready, and stands immediately, following Dick to the door.

As soon as they're in the hall and out of view of Damian's classmates, Dick crouches down and pulls his little brother into a tight hug. Damian goes rigid at first, as is expected, but then relaxes slightly and leans against Dick, one arm even raising up to grip at Dick's back.

It doesn't last long—Damian rarely allows himself prolonged amounts of comfort or affection—but it's enough to center Dick just a little, and he thinks it does the same for his kid.

"Grayson," Damian says stiffly, drawing back. His hands are twitching at his sides, his chin raised superiorly. "It's been a while. I did not think you considered us relevant to your life anymore."

That hurts, of course it does, but Dick smiles through it. "You? Not relevant? Not in a million years." He gets to his feet. "Feel like skipping your last few classes, Dami? The five of us are going to have some fun."

Damian narrows his eyes at Dick. "You cut off communication and spend six weeks at _Black Mask's side_ and then show up for an afternoon of ignoring responsibilities? Is that all you wish to say for yourself?"

Dick grimaces. He wants to hit himself for not considering that each of them would have their piece to say to him, of _course_ they would. Wishful thinking...

"We've got less than five hours until I have to leave again, Damian. No arguing or questioning is going to change that. I can't explain. And you can't ask question, or I have to go." Damian's eyes widen for a moment. Dick hates having to use that threat on him, on Tim, but it's the truth. They need to understand. "So what's your decision?"

Damian narrows his eyes at him, lips pursed, and then heads towards the staircase. "Come on," he calls to Dick, as if this was his idea all along. "We have the others to pick up."

"Tim's already in the car," Dick says hesitantly, and pretends not to see Damian's steps falter, the momentary tensing of his shoulders, "but Cass and Jason are still unknowingly waiting! Cass' dance studio's just up the road, too."

Damian makes a dismissive noise, but allows Dick to fall into step beside him, brushing their arms together. Dick smiles and wraps an arm around Damian's shoulders, tucking his little brother against his side. Damian makes a disgusted noise but doesn't try to pull away nearly as forcefully as he could, settling more quickly than Dick's sure the boy would like to admit.

When they get back to the car, Tim's sitting in the backseat, which makes Dick snort, but he doesn't comment, allowing Damian to climb into the passenger seat.

"Drake," Damian greets stiffly.

Tim's eyes flick up to meet Dick's through the rearview mirror, a commiserating sort of look. "Demon spawn."

"Onto Cass!" Dick announces before Damian can snark anything back, easily falling into his age-old role between the two of them.

The dance studio Cass prefers really is close by, barely five minutes up the road, and he leaves both of his brothers in the car when he ducks inside to find their sister.

She's in the small breakroom getting a bottle of water, not yet changed into her ballet attire, still dressed in street clothes. She glances over when he enters the room, and the surprise on her face is immediately replaced by sadness as she takes him in. He knew going into this that Cass would see past his bullshit, would know he's not even _close_ to as okay as he's trying to convince everyone else he is, but he also knows she won't reveal him.

"I've missed you," Cass says softly, drawing him into a hug. And they're on a time limit, they are, but Dick allows himself this. He lets himself close his eyes and wrap his arms around his sister, lets her run a hand soothingly up and down his back, holding onto him just as tightly as he is onto her.

When he feels his throat get thick with the possibility of tears, Dick draws back, and Cass pulls away simultaneously.

"How much time?" she asks.

Dick glances at his phone. "Just over four and a half hours."

Cass smiles. "Sounds great." She takes his hand and heads to the door, pausing for just a moment to tell one of the other girls that something came up and she won't be in class.

"Tim, Damian," Cass greets with a smile once they're back in the car. "Jason next?"

Dick nods, hands tight on the wheel. He's...anxious about this part. He hasn't seen Jason since that night a month and a half ago where Jason stood in the batcave and told him that none of what happened was his fault. Jason had been...amazing. Had shown Dick the possibility of accepting that maybe he wasn't to blame for everything he's been through. But then...

Well. He hasn't seen his brother since. His brother, who knows basically everything. His brother, who could make or break the event today.

"Yup," Dick confirms. Today's Wednesday; Jason volunteers under an alias at a library in East End on Wednesdays. It's not too far from the park where the city's sponsoring the outdoor activities. If Jason doesn't blow up on him, they'll all be able to start actually having fun right away.

Of course, there's always the chance that Jason will call him a coward for bending to Black Mask's will, weak for letting Roman do this to him. Tell him he's worthless. A whore. Getting what he deserves.

Wait, no. That's just Dick projecting. Jason said it wasn't his fault.

If they were a regular group of rich kids, driving a car as nice as the one they're in to Crime Ally would be absolutely asking for trouble. As is, they can handle any trouble that comes their way. Not that any trouble _will,_ not anymore. Everyone in this part of town knows he's property of Black Mask—they wouldn't dare mess with him or his car.

"Excuse me," Dick greets the librarian at the front desk, leaving the car idling out front, "but could you tell me where Andrew is?"

The librarian frowns at him, unimpressed, and opens her mouth, probably to tell him to fuck off. But she's stopped by someone behind him calling out, "Dick?"

Dick turns around to face his brother with a smile firmly in place; he's already exhausted by the charade and he's only been doing it for half an hour.

"Hey, Jason," he greets. "Feel like taking a day off?"

Jason's frowning at him, gaze going up and down Dick's body. Dick wonders what he sees; expensive, tailored clothing, a new haircut _(Roman wants him to grow it out again, liked when Dick's hair was long enough for him to grab and pull and lead, but as it grows it still has to be perfectly styled),_ no bruises or bumps or circles under his eyes—make-up is a wonderful thing. Dick knows he looks good. Healthy, happy. That's the whole fucking point.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Jason asks. His eyes flick past Dick towards the door and then back again. Dick's smile dims a little.

_(Coward, weak, worthless, whore—)_

And see Jason, Jason knows. He might not understand exactly how Dick ended up back at Roman's side, but he's smart enough to put the pieces together. The pictures, his identity. Dick knows Jason's figured it out by now, because how could he not? Which is why when Dick answers, it's far more honest than what he's given his other siblings.

"Time off for good behavior?" Dick offers.

There's a flash in Jason's eyes and he closes them, then pulls in a slow breath and lets it out. When he opens his eyes again he's calm, and walks towards Dick, eyeing him.

"That right," he says. Not a question. Dick just nods. "You know the batbrats have been just about losing their minds trying to figure out what's been going on, why you just up and vanished."

It's not said accusatorily, but Dick feels it hit his heart nonetheless. "Yeah," Dick says softly. He hesitates, and then adds, "Thank you for not telling them."

Jason scowls. "You're gonna have to, you get that, right? I've kept my mouth shut to give you a chance to deal with this shit on your own terms, and B is just a constipated asshole so he hasn't said anything, but you can't keep them in the dark forever. Not only is it not practical, but it's not fair." He glances around and lowers his voice. "Especially considering the problem of secret identities."

Dick grimaces. "Yeah, I know," he agrees, voice tighter than he would like. Jason just looks at him. "I will," Dick insists. "I-I'm sorry for all this garbage, Jay."

It's Jason's turn to grimace. "You've got nothing to apologize for," he says gruffly, and can't meet Dick's eyes for some reason. "I'm trying to—" He cuts off, pinches the bridge of his nose. _"Fuck,_ I can't tell you. Okay, with this _time off,_ what's the plan?"

Dick forces a smile back onto his face, forces himself to ignore whatever that slip of the tongue was. It's a little easier now that they've switched topics. "Everybody's playing hooky—I got Tim from work, Damian from school, Cass from dance class, and now you from the library; we're gonna go have normal people fun, like a normal family."

Jason's eyebrows go up, and he follows Dick to the door, offering a goodbye to the lady at the desk. "No Bruce?" His tone is conversational. The anger in his eyes is not.

Dick's smile doesn't falter by sheer force of will. He'd been prepared for the question by one of them. "Nope," he says, keeping his voice cheerful. He can feel Jason watching him, but he keeps his eyes forward.

"Can I ask why?"

"Ah, that reminds me," Dick says brightly, "you can't ask any questions."

Jason stops walking. Dick stops with him, and doesn't fidget under the heavy look his brother is giving him. "You have any clue what you're doing, Goldie?"

"No," Dick says helplessly, honestly. "But it's not like I have any other option."

Jason clenches his jaw, angry and dissatisfied with that answer, but Dick doesn't have it in him to make Jason feel better. He has enough on his plate.

"You guys coming, or what?" Tim calls from the car, and Dick turns with a ready smile, jogging for the driver's seat.

"Hell yeah, we're ready. Everyone excited for some outdoor games?"

He gets three exasperated looks, but Cass beams at him in encouragement, so he beams back. He can do this. Yeah, he can do this.

_Everything is okay._

* * *

While Damian is against childish games on principal, he has to admit that the day is not...completely unbearable.

The five of them are a force to be reckoned with, and utterly decimate the competition during the team events. They rack up points individually, as well, and Damian can _maybe_ say that he is...enjoying himself. The food vendors even have vegetarian options.

And all of it is worth it to spend time with Grayson, to see him smile the way he is. The past six weeks have been confusing and difficult, and whilst he desperately wishes to demand answers, to force his brother to tell him what undercover mission he _must_ be working, he has to keep Grayson's ultimatum in mind—no questions about the situation at hand, or he has to leave.

Damian most certainly is _not_ concerned by such a statement. His brother is fine. Grayson is _always_ fine.

He can tell they're all keeping one eye on Grayson as the hours pass, as if terrified he'll vanish right before their eyes. When they take a break to grab some food and sit at one of the park tables, they hold conversation and act relaxed, but there's an anxious edge to everything, especially as the clock ticks down.

When will be the next time they see him? Another six weeks? Damian does not wish to be needy, because he is _not_ needy, and certainly does not need _Grayson,_ but he...has an art show in a couple weeks at school. Grayson promised months ago he'd be present for the event. It's not in any fashion a big deal, of course. Barely worth noting.

Grayson's simply never broken a promise to him before. He's...the _only_ person who has never gone back on his word with Damian, no matter the circumstances.

"Never took you for a jewelry kind of guy," Todd says, popping an onion ring into his mouth, gesturing casually to Grayson's neck.

Grayson's expression—still smiling from some story Drake just told, eyes still crinkling at the corners—doesn't flinch at all, but his hand twitches momentarily upward on the table like he'd been going to reach up to feel the thing around his neck.

It's an elegant piece of jewelry, at least. Woven leather, loose enough to not restrict breathing nor swallowing, but tight enough to constitute what Damian believes is called a choker. It's thin, with a small black gem in the center of it, right in the hollow of Grayson's throat. Not typically Grayson's style, but it does fit with his outfit, and actually looks nice.

"Trying new things," is Grayson's easy reply, taking a sip of the milkshake in front of him. Todd has narrowed his eyes, and Grayson's smile tightens slightly in response, even if he's not looking at the younger.

The air becomes thick with tension around them. Damian knows Todd knows more about the situation than the rest of them do, and Todd's clear dislike of the jewelry makes Damian suspicious of its true purpose.

"Well," Drake says awkwardly, clearly trying to think of a new topic. His eyes flick past Grayson, lingering on something, and then he says, "I'm not the only one aware we're being watched, right?"

Grayson tenses involuntarily, and takes a longer sip of his milkshake.

"Yup," Todd says, popping the _P._ He's watching Grayson. The intensity of it makes Damian want to step between them, defend. "Been watching us for about an hour. They look familiar to anyone?"

Drake squints at the two men, then his eyes widen with recognition, and he ducks his head with a grimace, eyes flicking apologetically to Grayson.

'Well?" Damian demands, tired of being left in the dark. "Who are they?"

"Their names are Lou and Joseph," Grayson says after a moment, staring down at the table. The line of his shoulders is tense. "Roman assigned them to be my personal guards."

No one says anything, unsure about how to proceed. Todd's challenging look fades into something tired, and he rubs a hand down his face. "This is fucking ridiculous," he grumbles. "Dick, man, come on. We've spent four hours ignoring the elephant in the room. You have to leave soon. Unless Mask has a fucking bug on you, he's not gonna know if you said anything. Just tell us one thing."

"Jason—" Grayson says, pained.

"Just tell us that if you're in over your head," Todd interrupts, "you'll call for help. You've...got a lot you have to handle on your own right now. I get that." There's something guilty in the way Todd presses his lips into a thin line. "But if you reach a point where it's just—too much, just tell us you'll call."

There's a moment of tense silence, Grayson looking so pained.

"That's not fair," Cain says softly to Todd, and then takes Grayson's hand in her own, squeezing. Grayson squeezes back.

"I have to go," he says, voice thick, and Todd's hands ball into fists on the table, head ducking as he glares at the ground. Grayson gets to his feet, and Damian feels a burst of panic. He doesn't want Grayson to leave, doesn't want to have to lose his brother again. Grayson is in trouble, is behind enemy lines. And apparently there's nothing Damian can do about it.

Cain pulls Grayson into a tight hug, going up on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. Grayson nods, swallowing, and hugs her back before turning to Drake and pulling him into a hug as well.

"Keep taking breaks, Timmy," Grayson says with a clearly forced smile. "Don't burn yourself out just 'cause I'm not there to kick you in the butt."

Drake offers a strained smile in response. "You got it, Dick. And if you—need anything..."

Grayson just nods, and turns to face Damian. Damian glares back at him, arms folded across his chest, refusing to stand up from his seat. This entire affair is ridiculous; fine, if Grayson wants to leave them. Not like he cares. He doesn't need Grayson.

With a sigh, Grayson crouches down in front of Damian, offering him a sad smile. "What, no goodbye, Lil' D?"

"You will leave regardless," Damian sniffs. "What use is a goodbye?"

"I've missed you too," Grayson says softly. Damian swallows against the lump in his throat. "So, _so_ much. And I'm gonna miss you again, until the next time I see you."

"There is—my art show, in two weeks," Damian says stiffly, eyes flicking away from eye contact for a moment before he forces himself to hold it. "Do you still plan to attend? Or do you have more important matters to see to? It does not matter one way or the other to me."

Grayson smiles at him, wide and bright like the sun. There's something missing in his eyes. "I promised, didn't I? I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Damian most certainly does _not_ feel a ball loosen in his chest at the confirmation. Absolutely not. It doesn't matter if Grayson shows up, whether or not he keeps his promise.

"Good, then," Damian says, nodding tightly, and then allows Grayson to wrap his arms around him. Purely for Grayson's sake, of course. And he certainly doesn't miss the contact when Grayson pulls away.

For a long moment, Grayson and Todd just stare at each other.

"This is so messed up," Todd says bluntly.

Grayson huffs a laugh. "Yeah," he agrees. "It is." He glances briefly at Damian and Drake, lips twisting. "You can tell them," Grayson says quietly to Todd. "Just...be gentle."

Todd nods, pursing his lips. "I'll see you when I see you, Goldie."

Grayson nods, and offers them all one last smile before turning away, heading in the direction of the two men watching them. "See you when I see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a relatively quiet chapter, but don’t worry, _lots_ more angst and pain coming at you next week 😉
> 
> See y'all next time! Comments always welcome 💜


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an impatient person who wants you to see the fruits of my labor now, so enjoy this early chapter!
> 
> Also my thanks to greyheart for inspiring a lot of this chapter, and continuing to be my evil, evil sounding board as I write this series.

Dick closes his eyes and counts to ten.

He pictures himself up on the trapeze, swinging through the sky, air brushing his hair back. He pictures the weightlessness, the breathtaking moments before his hands wrap around the next bar, where it's just him and the air and nothing to catch him except his own skill.

Dick enjoys ten perfect moments of peace, and then opens his eyes again, trying to hold onto the feeling and not burst into a million pieces.

Seeing them was...hard. Amazing, but so _hard._ He got to play games and laugh with them and enjoy a few hours where Roman wasn't ever-present, where Lou and Joseph weren't watching his every move (until they arrived). He got to do that, with his family. But it was impossible to forget the elephant in the room. It was impossible to forget where he was going to have to go after time was up.

And now he's in a car on his way back to the penthouse, and he's barely keeping himself together.

He can't even begin to describe how badly he wanted to say no. How badly he wanted to look at Lou and Joseph and tell them to go fuck themselves, to tell Roman he'd be back when he was finished and not a moment sooner.

But the repercussions for such a thing...

He wants to hold Damian again. He wants Cass to stroke a hand through his hair, and Jason to tell him everything's going to be okay even though it's not, and he wants Tim to tell more stupid stories about his team. He wants Alfred to make blueberry pancakes and he wants Bruce to give them all that half-smile he makes when he's truly happy. He wants to go be with his family so badly it _burns.  
_

Instead—

He knows Roman's going to want something as a thank you. That he's going to be waiting for Dick, and Dick's going to have to pretend he doesn't feel like his heart is being ripped out of his body from leaving them. He's going to have to please Roman, and he's going to have to do it _well_ so that Roman is more likely to allow him privileges like this in the future.

"Stop the car," Dick orders. He sees Lou and Joseph exchange a look, but Joseph—behind the wheel—does begin to pull over.

As soon as the car is stationary, Dick is out, stumbling across the sidewalk to lean against the brick wall of a nearby building. He presses his forehead against the rough material, hands against it as well, trying to quell his nausea.

Breathe in through the nose, hold for a count of five, let out through the mouth, hold for a count of five. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

"Mr. Grayson?" Dammit, Joseph. "Mr. Sionis is expecting us back."

"Yeah," Dick croaks. "Yeah, I know, just give me one more minute. Please." Joseph says nothing else, which Dick takes as permission.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

"Alright," Dick says when he's sure he has control over himself. He stands up straight again, brushing his hands off, and turns back towards the car. "Let's go."

Lou opens the back door for him and Dick slides back inside, composed and ready to face Roman. Ready to act the part of grateful whore.

When they get back to the penthouse, Joseph tells him that Roman's in his office, and Dick waves him off, heading in the familiar direction. He knocks, waits for the call to enter, takes a deep breath, and goes inside.

"Richard," Roman greets, leaning back in his large leather desk chair. "How was your day out?"

Show time.

"It was great," Dick says, smiling, walking further into the room like he's happy to be there. "It was really awesome to spend time with them. Thank you, Roman, for letting me."

Roman's lips quirk, pleased with his performance. Good. He has to keep him that way.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," he says graciously, and beckons him closer. Dick goes without complaint, moving around the room to perch on the desk beside the older man. "See how nice I can be when you're good?"

God, what an ass.

"Yeah," Dick says instead, still smiling, still the happy little soldier. He lets Roman take his hand, follows the pull when Roman tugs him closer, sliding onto the chair to straddle the man's lap. He rests his hands on Roman's shoulders, kneading at them, and then is rewarded with a quiet hum of pleasure. Good; a happy Roman right now means better things for Dick in the long run. He needs to show Roman that seeing his family hasn't put him in a rebellious mood.

He's still a Team Player. Woo.

Roman runs his hands up Dick's thighs, hips, sides, and begins undoing the buttons of Dick's shirt. Dick used to love to wear t-shirts. He had so many that were terribly comfortable. But Roman chooses his wardrobe, and so the only times Dick gets to wear t-shirts or sweatpants is to bed, and to breakfast. Otherwise—button-ups, tailored suits, polo shirts, expensive shoes, the works.

Dick shrugs the shirt off when Roman's done, and doesn't twitch as the man strokes his body, eyes dragging across the revealed skin. His hands drift around, squeezing Dick's ass, and Dick rolls his hips forward in response, compliant and responsive. Good little soldier. Good little whore. Keep it up.

"How good you're being for me," Roman murmurs, using his grip to help Dick grind downwards. Dick can feel him getting hard beneath him. "Maybe I should let you see them more often, if this is how you behave when you come back."

Dick's heart surges. Yes, yes, _yes!_ Good, that's exactly what he wants. Keep thinking like that, Roman. Just like that.

Dick offers a flirtatious smile, ducking his head to look at Roman through his lashes. "Sounds good to me, Daddy."

And Roman _laughs,_ grinning at him. "My oh my, look at you. I appreciate the effort, sweetheart. Alright, let's keep playing this game." One hand leaves Dick's ass to reach for his belt and zipper. "Why don't you show me how _good_ you can really be? I do love gratitude."

* * *

Jason's leg bounces up and down, hands folded in his lap. Tim and Damian are openly staring at him, waiting. Cass is making a valiant effort to pretend to not be staring.

He's shocked by their patience.

He's taken them to one of his safehouses, driving there in tense, dead silence. Tim had suggested going to the batcave for whatever this conversation was going to be, but Jason vetoed that immediately. He doesn't want Bruce hovering over their shoulders as he tries to explain to their siblings what's going on with Dick right now.

_Just...be gentle._

Jason wants to laugh. Gentle. _Gentle?_ How the hell is Jason supposed to communicate the horror of Dick's situation while being _gentle?_ He can't leave things out, not to make them understand, but there's absolutely nothing gentle about Roman basically raping Dick and blackmailing him with photographic evidence. Oh, and their identities to top it all off.

"Jay," Cass says quietly. "Breathe."

Right. Breathing. Breathing is good.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. So. Okay."

"Jason," Tim says, voice tight. "Please start talking. Now."

Jason gets to his feet and starts to pace. "Right. So."

"Todd!" Damian shouts.

"Okay!" Jason shouts back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay." Deep breath. Gentle.

"When Dick was seventeen, Bruce kicked him out of the Manor and fired him from Robin." He doesn't look at any of them, ignores the sharp intake of breath from Tim.

"Father wouldn't—" Damian begins.

"Can it," Jason snaps. "He would, and he did. Aright, so Dick was just a kid, and kicked out of his home with nothing. So he got drunk. _Super_ drunk. And Black Mask found him. Sionis really doesn't like Bruce—you guys know the history—so when he saw Bruce's son all drunk and upset, he decided to..." Gentle. How the fuck is he going to be gentle. "...take him home with him, in an attempt to manipulate him and hurt Bruce."

Sure, that works.

"Dick was with him for a couple weeks after that," Jason rushes to continue, "before making his way to Superman in Metropolis. Then, a little over two years later, I died. And apparently Dick went to talk to Bruce about it, and Bruce..." Gentle. Yeah, no, absolutely not. Not for this. They need to know who they're living with. "Bruce blamed Dick for my death, and punched him."

_"What?"_

"How dare you make that accusation?!"

"It's what happened!" Jason yells over them, and finally looks back. Cass is frowning at him, expression grave, eyes troubled. Tim's eyes are wide, a little panicked, and he's gotten to his feet. Damian looks furious. And afraid.

"It's what happened," Jason repeats more quietly. "Bruce then— _once again—_ told his fucking teenage son to get out of his house. And once again, Mask showed up." He's not explaining how Dick was the one to call. That's a box of messed up psyche Jason doesn't need to explain to the kids. "That time, he had Dick for a month. That's also when he started...documenting things."

"He's blackmailing him," Cass extrapolates. Jason nods.

"Fuck," Tim breathes. "That's...shit. What kinds of things does Sionis have on Dick?"

Jason's eyes flicked to Damian and then to Tim. Absolutely not. "Personal shit," he says firmly. "Shit that if it got out, would ruin Dick for a long while." And now comes the _really_ hard part. "And he has something else on him, too. Something...bigger."

"It affects us," Cass says for him, tilting her head. Jason nods.

"Just spit it out, Todd," Damian snaps. His hands are balled into fists, the line of his shoulders tense.

"Black Mask knows our identities," Jason blurts. The air gets sucked out of the room. "And fuck, it's not Dick's fault, it's mine. I tried to...defend Dick, Roman heard my name, put two and two together about who I am. And he's—considering his history with Dick, and knowing my name, he put together who the rest of you guys are. So he's threatening to release our names and the— _other_ stuff he has if Dick doesn't do what he wants."

Tim sits back down, putting his head in his hands. Damian's staring at Jason almost in incomprehension, like it isn't sinking in yet. Cass has her eyes closed.

"How wide is it?" Tim asks, voice hoarse. He doesn't lift his head. "I mean, how many of us are blown if he decides to release our IDs? Just the immediate family? Stephanie? Barbara? Kate? Helena? Luke? Harper? What's the potential damage?"

Jason swallows. "Probably just the immediate family," he says quietly. "We're the ones he can match up first appearances with B and new heroes to. Roman's smart enough to reach the point of knowing the Robins as Bruce's kids, plus Cass because duh." He hesitates. "Sionis might know who Babs and Steph are too, since it's public knowledge that you and Steph used to be a couple, and almost as well-known that Red Robin and Spoiler used to do the dirty."

His attempt at humor draws no positive response, not that he'd expected anything. He clears his throat.

"And Babs—is, well, Babs. First Batgirl had red hair and hung out all the time with the first Robin, and Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon had a pretty public relationship at exactly the same time. Everyone else is distant enough that it wouldn't make any sense to guess at it. That's probably all Mask knows."

"Barbara definitely knows already," Cass says softly, which Jason has to admit is probable; Oracle knows all, and Jason wouldn't be surprised if she decided to do some digging after Dick started showing up with Roman and both Bruce and Jason wouldn't say anything.

"I'll fill Steph in," Tim says, sliding his hands into his hair and gripping the strands tightly. "She'll—she deserves to know that she could be at risk, especially considering her history with Black Mask. Her mom..."

"I'll visit," Cass says. "Make sure she's okay. Hasn't faced any...problems."

Tim nods, finally lifting his head from his hands. He looks like he's aged twenty years. "Right. Good. It's..." He squeezes his eyes shut, then open them. "We don't have to tell the others, not yet. Not when they're probably separate from this threat. Dick deserves as much privacy as we can give him."

Jason nods quickly, relieved. He doesn't think he could do this again. Especially not with people like Kate and Helena, who would immediately be able to read between the lines and _really_ understand what Sionis did to Dick. And they'd be out for blood.

(Jason can sympathize.)

"Is Richard okay?"

At the vulnerable, small voice, Jason looks over to Damian. The young boy—fuck, he's only twelve, truly just a kid—is making a valiant effort to pretend he's fine, but he's really not fooling anyone.

"Dick's strong," Jason says instead of answering the question, because he can't lie and he can't tell the truth. "One of the strongest people there is."

Damian juts out his chin. "Obviously." He crosses his arms over his chest, gaze sliding away. "Did father really...?"

"Yes," Jason says firmly. He won't let Damian be unsure about this; the kid probably deserves to know this side of things more than anything. "Kicked Dick out twice, and hit him. _Hard._ And going by something Dick said, that wasn't the only time a punch was thrown at him outside of training."

Tim squeezes his eyes shut again, and says nothing. Damian looks so lost. Jason doesn't quite know how to help either of them. Dick would know. Dick always knew. Fuck, how they certainly took it for granted.

"We'll get through this together," Cass says, sliding her hands into Jason's. If not for her eyes—upset, furious, devastated—Jason would mistake her for perfectly calm. "As always."

* * *

Dick allows the next week to fall back into the regular rhythm of their lives, keeping all mention of Damian's art show to himself. He doesn't want to appear "greedy," asking for one thing right after another. But the truth is that time is ticking down, and Dick needs permission to attend.

He decides to bring it up after morning sex. Sex puts everybody in a good mood, after all. Roman gave him his fancy car after a bout of sex. Gave him permission to go shopping by himself after sex. It's a good track record.

"I wanted to ask you something," Dick says softly. They're both in bed, but neither sleeping. Roman has his eyes closed, drifting pleasantly, and his hand is stroking through Dick's hair in a gentle motion that Dick wishes he would stop, simply because it feels so nice.

Roman hums in acknowledgement, showing that he's listening. Dick forces himself not to shift in his anxiety, to remain relaxed and loose, like this isn't a huge deal.

"Next Friday, Gotham Academy is hosting an art show to highlight the talents of its students." He keeps his voice quiet, gentle, not ruining the atmosphere of the room. "It's part of a whole creative arts week, actually, with a musical and a play and a concert and a reading of short stories. I was wondering if I could go to the art show."

There's no response for a moment, but Roman's hand doesn't stop stroking through his hair, so Dick knows he's not upset. That's good. "Why do you want to go stare at a bunch of art made by children?" He sounds amused. Dick can work with amused.

"I know, it's stupid," Dick agrees, trying to sound amused by himself as well. "Never thought I'd willingly go back to my old school. But Damian's got a few pieces in the show, and I thought it would be fun to be able to see them, since he rarely does any extracurricular activities."

Roman hums again. Then his hand leaves Dick's hair, going down the side of his face and then under his chin, nudging Dick's face up to look at him. Roman has an eyebrow raised. Still, he doesn't look upset.

"Are you serious?" he asks, still amused. Dick would by far rather have amused than angry. "That little shit of a kid is in an _art show?"_

Dick keeps himself from reacting to the insult, his expression relaxed and easy. "Yup."

"Next Friday, you said?" Roman asks. Dick nods. Roman makes a dismissive noise. "We already have plans that night, sweetheart. The dinner with Falcone and Maroni. It's important for my business."

Dick swallows, hoping he keeps the flinch out of his expression. _No, no, no, no, no, no—_ "Please? It would be fun. And the last time I was in a room with the Maroni family you almost killed his son for making a pass at me. Should we really tempt it? Me being there might actually be bad for business."

Roman's other eyebrow goes up to meet the first. His gaze sharpens a little. Shit.

"You really want to go to this thing," he observes. Dick doesn't say anything; there's no right answer here. "Why do you care so much about one stupid event? Kids do shit all the time."

"He doesn't really do anything," Dick says, trying to keep his tone blasé. He shrugs a shoulder. "I said I'd go a few months ago, don't want to go back on my word, you know?" He adds a smile to the end, amused, like it's still not a big deal.

Roman sits up, looming over him. Shit, shit, _shit._ "Richard," he chastises. Dick fights not to tense, adjusting so he can see Roman more clearly in the new position. "I would hope I don't have to remind you how important _honesty_ is to me."

Dick doesn't grimace, doesn't flinch. Roman strokes the side of his neck, and the touch feels threatening rather than soothing.

"It's important to him," Dick says quietly, and keeps himself from leaning away from the touch. "Not much when it comes to school or events is important to Damian, and I promised him I'd go long before all of this. I've never broken a promise to him before. I don't want to start now."

"It's important to him," Roman echoes, "so it's _very_ important to _you."_ Dick hesitates, hating to give him this, but nods. Roman makes a curious noise, tilting his head.

"Well," he says eventually, "that dinner is important to me, sweetheart. Why should your wants be above mine?"

There's nothing polite Dick can really say to that, so he sidesteps the question. "Please, Roman."

Roman hums, considering. He sits up further and then stands, walking over to his closet and beginning to get dressed for the day. Dick watches him quietly, waiting.

"You remember the gala we're attending tonight?" Roman tosses over his shoulder, offhand, pulling on his pants. Dick sits up, leaning against the headboard.

"Yes."

"Wayne is going to be attending."

Dick withholds a sigh; he hates events where Bruce is there too, it just makes everything more challenging. They've never interacted—guards stepping in the way to make sure—but even his father's mere presence around him and Roman is enough to set Dick on edge.

"That sucks," Dick comments, and Roman sends him a brief amused look, and doesn't say anything else.

When Roman is completely dressed for the day, as impeccable and powerful as ever, he heads back over to the bed, leaning over Dick. He hooks a finger under the collar and uses it to tilt Dick's head up, extending his neck.

"We're going to be sitting at the same table," Roman tells him, and Dick blinks in surprise; every event, Roman tries to keep him away from Bruce. Why—? "You want to miss out on a dinner you're supposed to attend and instead go to a silly art show? I want you on your absolute best behavior tonight, sweetheart." Dick's heart surges. "And I mean your _best_ behavior."

"Of course," Dick rushes to say, as if he'd ever be anything else. "I—"

"You're going to be sitting a few seats away from your father," Roman interrupts. "You're going to have to make small talk with him and whoever his date is and all the other guests, and you're going to have to keep being my loyal little partner. Do you understand what I'm saying, Richard?"

Yes, Dick does. He's saying that he's going to have to sit near Bruce and act madly in love with Roman like always in public. He's going to have to put up with whatever remarks Roman makes towards Bruce, act like everything's fine. He's going to have to be the absolutely perfect doting boyfriend, the twenty-six-year-old who is head over heels for the older man. He's going to have to look Bruce in the eye and keep up the charade.

He'll do it. Because Damian is counting on him. It'll hurt, it'll be _embarrassing,_ but he'll do it.

"I understand," Dick says firmly. "And I agree. I _will."_

Roman smiles. "Good boy."

* * *

Ever since Bruce took him in at nine years old, Dick's been to countless fancy parties like this one. There's a rhythm to them, one that is now second-nature, and Dick lets himself slip into that, ignoring the anxiety buzzing at the back of his head.

He can do this, it's not a big deal. So what if Bruce is going to see up close how he and Roman act? It's worth it, for Damian.

The first hour, before the dinner, Dick doesn't see Bruce at all. And when it comes time for food and they all make their way to the assigned tables, even then there's no sign of Bruce. Dick refuses to let himself hope, refuses to believe he's that lucky that _this_ is the gala Bruce is deciding to skip, and he pushes it out of his mind, focusing on being Roman's perfect date, effortlessly charming their tablemates and participating in conversation.

Unfortunately, it's only twenty minutes into the dinner portion of the evening that Bruce and his date arrive, quite fashionably late. Then make their way over to the table, wrapped up in each other and giggling (and Dick will always find watching Brucie at work _fascinating,_ knowing who Bruce truly is). It's not until they're sitting and Bruce pulls his gaze away from the beautiful woman on his arm that he sees exactly who he's sitting next to.

For a single moment, Bruce's persona slips as his gaze locks with Dick's around Roman. Barely a second, and then he's right back to his act, smiling at Dick as their onlookers would expect.

"Dick!" Bruce exclaims, a hint of drunkenness in the way he sways. "So good to see you, feels like it's been forever."

Dick feels Roman's arm slide over the back of his chair, and going by the slight flicker in Bruce's eyes, he's tracking the possessive motion too.

"It does," Dick agrees, tone that of a chagrined son who doesn't visit often enough. "Sorry about that! I've been so wrapped up in other things lately—" He makes his eyes glance over to Roman, enough for the others to notice, lips curving into a fond smile like he can't help himself, "—that visiting has slipped my mind."

No one else notices the infinitesimal twitch in Bruce's eye. The smile remains firmly in place.

"Oh, Brucie, you can understand that, can't you?" a woman at their table titters, offering Dick a wink. Dick thinks her name is Margaret. "He's young and in love, give him space!"

Roman chuckles and presses a kiss to Dick's temple. Dick makes himself lean into it, and smile bashfully when a chorus of _"aw"s_ goes around the table.

"I might not qualify as _young_ and in love," Roman says smoothly, drawing another round of soft laughter, "but your support is certainly appreciated, Maggie."

The night's only just begun and Dick's already exhausted.

Time drags on and on. Dick keeps his attention on the other guests as much as he can, but he knows what Roman wants from him, so he forces himself to make conversation with Bruce and his date Angela. Every time Roman touches him, whispers in his ear, even _smiles_ at him, Bruce twitches, barely keeping his pleasant persona in place. When Roman wipes a spot of food from the corner of Dick's mouth and then kisses him deeply, Bruce actually closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if fighting a violent urge.

"Oh, Brucie," Roman says at the hour and a half mark, when Dick can see the finish line on the horizon, "Richard tells me that you do a bit of bird watching."

It's only because Dick and Bruce have been doing this for as long as they have that neither of them tenses at the comment.

"I do," Bruce agrees with a smile, because he has to.

Roman pulls out his phone and opens it. The angle he's holding it at doesn't allow Dick to see whatever he's doing. "You'll appreciate this, then. I came across the most beautiful bird the other day, such unique coloring; have a look." He holds his phone over to Bruce, putting it firmly enough in his line of sight that Bruce has no choice but to look at whatever it is, and Dick sees Bruce's nostrils flare, his jaw clenching.

Roman leans in close, and when he next speaks his voice is pitched to make sure it doesn't carry to anyone except Bruce and Dick. "He really does look so beautiful in black and blue, doesn't he? I understand why you hit so hard now."

Dick sucks in a sharp breath and then tries to cover it up by taking a sip of his wine. _Christ,_ what is Roman _showing_ him? He's not—he _wouldn't—_

Would he?

Of course he would.

Dick takes a big gulp of wine.

"You're going to want to pull away from me," Bruce says lowly, fury wrapped up in every syllable, quiet enough so no one else at the table will hear, "before I break your arm and your face and maybe your leg for good measure."

Roman chuckles, knowing Bruce won't risk doing any of that, but does draw back, wrapping an arm around Dick's shoulders and kissing the edge of his jaw.

"You want to see, sweetheart?" Roman murmurs in his ear.

Not really. Maybe. No. Yes. No. "Yes."

Roman offers him his cellphone and Dick takes a deep breath before looking at the screen, preparing himself. When he sees what Roman's just shown Bruce, he has to swallow back the vomit that threatens to come out.

It's a photo of Dick. Naked, straddling Roman's lap on the chair at the head of the dining room table. There are dark bruises all along his chest and sides—some of them hickies, most of them far harsher—and his arms are tied tightly behind his back. He's blindfolded, a Nightwing-blue cloth wrapped around his eyes, and there's a matching leash attached to his collar, the end of the leash wrapped tightly around Roman's fist. Also in Roman's fist is one of Dick's nipples, which he's twisting cruelly.

Dick remembers this. It happened three days ago. He still has the bruises.

"Roman," Dick says, strained, his eyes falling shut. Roman's breath washes across the side of Dick's face as he laughs. _"Why?"_

"I thought he'd like to see," the man replies innocently. Dick suppresses a shudder. Bruce saw him like that. _Bruce_ saw him like that. _Bruce_ saw him like _that._

"Right," Dick says, voice cracking. "Right. Of course."

He forces his eyes open again. Forces himself to throw a smile in Roman's direction for their audience, and then start up a conversation with the woman next to him, turning away from Roman and Bruce, grateful when he can no longer see either of them. Even if Roman's arm is still tight around his shoulders. He wants this to be over.

He ignores Roman's hand stroking his upper-arm. Ignores it as it drifts up to play with his hair, and then to kneed at the back of his neck, and then he removes his arm altogether. Dick waits for the catch, trying to focus on the nice young housewife who's talking to him.

"Oh, you have something on your shirt, sweetheart," Roman tells him, and brushes his hand a couple times over Dick's shirt. Which would be nothing—just another intimate gesture at this gala—if Roman hadn't purposefully pressed against where he knows the worst of the remaining bruises are. Dick suppresses his flinch at the pain, his jaw simply ticking, his eye twitching, and forces himself to thank Roman for brushing his shirt off.

Bruce is barely controlling himself, eyes locked onto Dick's torso as if he could see the injuries beneath. Knowing Bruce, he probably has the picture seared into his brain. Dick hates him for that.

"Well," Roman says after another ten minutes, making a show of glancing at his watch, "it's getting late, and I know Richard has an early class in the morning." He offers Dick a charming smile. "So I think we'll be going."

Dick makes himself smile back, nodding, and says his goodbyes to the table, blushing good-naturedly when someone suggestively says, "Have a good night, you two!"

And then they're out of there, a whole half hour before it was supposed to end, and Dick couldn't be more grateful. He did it. He spent three hours making small talk and describing his whirlwind romance with Roman to everyone who asked, everyone who's so invested in his love life. God, he doesn't want to see Bruce for a long time. He couldn't even look him in the eye as they said goodbye.

But it's over now, and _he did it._ He was a _rock star_ all night, perfect all the way through. He did it. And now he gets to keep his promise to Damian.

In the car ride back to the penthouse, Roman keeps him tucked against his side, and Dick lets him, makes himself curl up against him, because _it's over,_ and he's not about to ruin all that good will.

Roman kisses him, deep and slow, and hums in pleasure when Dick opens his mouth pliantly, tilting his head upward into the kiss. The car stops and they get out, going up to the penthouse. Roman pulls him into another kiss, arms wrapping around him, and Dick goes with it, walking where he's led.

"You were wonderful tonight, sweetheart," Roman tells him, and Dick lets out a shuddering breath, so relieved by the acknowledgement. Roman said it, he _knows._ Dick did it. "So fucking _perfect_ for me." He laughs. "The _look_ on Wayne's face! There were a few times when he looked just about ready to strangle me, don't you think?"

Dick nods, not trusting himself to speak, and tilts his head back to allow Roman more access when the older man begins biting and sucking at his neck.

Roman pulls back after a minute, shaking his head, still smiling. "Christ, I need a drink. Come on."

He leads the way to his office, where he keeps the best of his alcohol. Dick remains silent, watching Roman open a bottle and pour himself a tumbler of scotch. He heads over to the desk, flipping through a couple papers and frowning down at something before shaking his head and letting it go, taking another sip from his glass before turning to look back at Dick, an expectant look on his face.

Well, he could be expecting any number of things, and not really giving Dick any clue as to what it is. So Dick settles for something simple. "I'm glad you think I did well," he says, and doesn't even have to fake the honesty in his voice. So fucking _relieved_ that he pleased Roman and can go to Damian's show. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Roman says graciously, and seems satisfied. The night's really put him in a good mood. "Now normally I'd like to celebrate your good behavior, but I actually do have some work to get done, so you can just go to bed."

A successful night _and_ Dick doesn't have to do anything else? Jesus Christ, the embarrassment in front of Bruce was absolutely worth it!

"Good night, Roman," Dick says with a smile that he doesn't have to force, too happy to feel anything else. "I'll find out the hours of the art show and let you know; I know you like having specifics."

He turns away, hand falling onto the doorknob.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Dick frowns, turning back at the amused statement. Roman is looking at him with raised eyebrows, lips quirked.

"The art show," Dick says hesitantly. "Damian's art show. Next Friday..."

Roman's expression turns patronizing, dismissive, even looking away from Dick to go sit in one of the armchairs. "Oh, sweetheart, I already _told_ you; we have plans that night."

Dick feels frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. His chest is getting warm, tight. His head is buzzing. "But you said—"

"What did I say?" Roman asks, glancing over at him. He sounds _bored._

"We had a deal," Dick says dumbly. We had a deal. We had a deal. We had a deal. _We had a deal._

"Did we?" Roman asks, breathing a little laugh. "What deal would that be?"

And now Dick is angry. Because no. _No._ Roman can't do this, can't go back on his word. He said that if Dick was on his best behavior during the gala, he could go to Damian's art show. They agreed. They had a _deal._ Roman said—

_You want to miss out on a dinner you're supposed to attend and instead go to a silly art show? I want you on your absolute best behavior tonight, sweetheart._

Well, he didn't technically say...

"You can't do this," Dick whispers.

Roman narrows his eyes. "Want to run that by me again, Richard?"

Warning bells go off in Dick's head, telling him he needs to back down, but _he can't do this._ Roman made him believe that an exchange was taking place, that if he was on the top of his game during the dinner then he would get to fucking go to something important to him! Dick can barely think past that, can barely _breathe,_ picturing Damian's face in his mind—

"No, you—this was an exchange, you said—you made it _sound like—"_ Dick shakes his head. "No! I was excellent tonight, you said it yourself, and so now I get to go to Damian's art show!"

Roman chuckles. "What a whore you are," he says, "expecting payment for everything you do."

Dick feels it like a knife to the gut. No, that's not what this is. That's not what he's doing. They have an _agreement,_ a _balance,_ rules, a give and take. He's not—he isn't trying to—

"I don't need to _buy_ you, baby," Roman tells him, "not when I already _own_ you. Anything I give you is out of my copious _generosity."_

"Roman," Dick says brokenly. _"Please._ I swore I'd be there, he's _counting_ on me. Please, Roman, _please."_

The man leans back in the armchair, finishing off his glass of scotch. He tuts at Dick, shaking his head. "You're testing my limits, Richard. Now why don't you show Daddy that you're _sorry_ for trying to get more than you deserve."

Dick's eyes sting with tears.

He knows what this means to Damian. It's something that has nothing to do with his skills as Robin. Nothing to do with the legacy his mother placed on his shoulders and nothing to do with the legacy created by Bruce that he's trying so hard to live up to. Nothing to do with being the strongest or fastest or best at throwing a punch. This is something Damian simply _enjoys,_ something he does for no reason other than he _loves_ it, and the school is honoring that love and talent. Supporting something like this is so fucking important. Showing Damian that he has more to offer the world than just being Robin is _important._

And Dick _promised._

"I'm waiting," Roman says coolly.

"What do you want me to do?" Dick asks hoarsely. Will anyone else be at the art show? Dick doesn't know if Damian mentioned it to anyone else. He certainly wouldn't have told Bruce.

Roman smirks. "Be creative. Make Daddy _believe_ you're sorry."

Dick turns away for a moment, putting his head in his hands, trying to regain control of himself. It's hard. It's impossible. How is he supposed to...

_He promised._

Creative, huh? Taking the initiative. Giving Roman something. To show he's _sorry_ for hoping to be treated like a human fucking being—

Dick turns back around, swallowing against the lump in his throat, trying to blink away his tears. Creative. Right. Fine.

He begins to strip, slow and sensual, making a show of it. Roman's eyes spark, gaze turning hungry. One by one Dick drops each piece of clothing to the ground, trying to push Damian's face out of his mind, trying to focus on anything but the situation at hand.

Dick lowers himself to his knees, crawling across the floor towards Roman, swaying his hips. He places himself between Roman's legs, stroking his hands up the man's calves and thighs, rubbing over them before briefly pressing his palm against Roman's growing bulge. He leans in, mouthing at it over the cloth, getting rewarded with a quiet breath of pleasure.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," he gets himself to say, knowing it's what Roman wants. "I'm sorry."

He reaches for the edge of Roman's shirt to untuck it from his pants, glancing briefly upward to get permission—Roman's a big fan of keeping his clothes on whenever they're together, the most basic form of showing his superiority while always having Dick naked, and Dick learned to always ask permission before taking anything off of him. Before doing _anything._

Like a good little slave.

Roman inclines his head, so Dick untucks his shirt then begins undoing the buttons from the bottom. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

The look on Damian's face at the park, when he mentioned the art show again. The way he struggled to hold eye contact and still ask for Dick's presence.

With every bit of revealed skin, Dick presses a kiss to it, kissing his way up Roman's stomach and chest and then sliding into Roman's lap. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

Damian doesn't really talk to Bruce about anything other than their heroing duties. Alfred has things he needs to attend to that night. And Dick...can't go. Will Damian not have any parental figure there to encourage him?

Dick rolls his hips, leaning in to kiss along Roman's neck, moving into a lap dance. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

His kid is counting on him.

Dick's breath hitches. He tries to cover it up by undoing Roman's belt and zipper, sliding his hand into his pants. "I'm—I'm sorry, Daddy."

And he's going to let him down.

He wraps his hand around Roman's cock, stroking in the way he knows he likes. "I'm sorry," Dick whispers. His vision is blurring, eyes stinging with tears. "I'm sorry."

He promised he'd be there.

Dick's shaking slightly. He pulls Roman's cock out of his pants to more easily move his hand around it. "I'm s-so sorry."

He's never broken a promise to Damian before. Not to Damian. Not to his kid.

Roman's hips jerk upward into his grip, a groan making its way out of his mouth. Dick presses his face into the crook of Roman's neck, hoping the wetness of the kiss masks the tears escaping his eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Not to his kid.

Roman comes, painting Dick's hand and both of their chests. Dick doesn't need to be told to slide back off his lap and onto his knees, licking the cum from Roman's skin. "I'm s-sorry." He sits back on his heels, swallowing back a sob. "I'm so sorry."

Roman tucks himself away and stands up. He places his hand on Dick's head, petting his hair fondly. "You're forgiven, baby." And then he leaves, walking off down the hall.

He promised.

"I'm so sorry," Dick cries, wrapping his arms around himself, sobbing into the silence left in Roman's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 👀 Kay I'm gonna go hide now


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter goes a little bit back in time; in Chapter 3, the gala scene takes place a week~ after Dick's outing with his siblings. This chapter starts with a scene that happens the same day as that outing (and after Jason told Tim, Damian, and Cass the truth) before going back to regular time.
> 
> Just thought I'd let you know! Head off any possible confusion. Ok now go enjoy!

"We need to talk."

Bruce doesn't turn around, attention focused on the screen in front of him. Tim waits, walking towards his father with measured steps. He promised himself he'd stay calm for this conversation, that he'd keep his distance and not get worked up. It's important.

"Can it wait?" Bruce responds, not even glancing over. Not that that's unusual. "I'm trying to track the funds for a particular shipment Maroni is rumored to be pulling into the docks sometime in the next few weeks. If I can find whoever his partner is and stop the deal, it'll be a big blow to Maroni's operations."

"No, it can't," Tim says. He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket, clenched to try to keep them from shaking. He keeps a count of his breathing in his head, using it as a focal point to keep himself centered. Dick taught him that trick. Tim uses it a lot.

It's only been an hour since Jason laid it all out for him, Damian, and Cass. Since he told them about Dick's history with one of the worst criminals in Gotham, since he showed them who their father truly is and what he's willing to do.

Tim's always known Bruce isn't the picture of perfect mental health, but none of them are. How _could_ you be, living the lives they do, seeing the things they see? They've all always been very aware of Bruce's less-than-stellar habits and personality traits. But none of them would've imagined...

Bruce gave Tim a home and a family and didn't hesitate to call him _son_ after Jack Drake died. Bruce is Tim's father and mentor and hero, and Tim loves him. Would do absolutely anything for him.

But Dick was the first to call him _family_ at all. Was the one to train him when Bruce didn't want to. Was the one to take him to the movies and go train surfing and show him what it really meant to be a hero, to call himself _Robin._ Without Dick, there would be no family for Bruce to give him at all.

And Bruce _hurt him._ Like an abusive parent, he _hurt Dick._ Dick, who always does everything in his power to take care of them. Who defends Bruce when others question if he's doing the right thing. Who keeps the peace between Bruce and Jason even when Dick's mad at them both. Bruce hurt his son, _hit_ his son and _kicked him out._ And Tim is—struggling to meld that fact into the hero that Batman is, into the father that Bruce is.

It weighs heavily in Tim's mind as he approaches Bruce. As does everything Jason said about Dick and Roman Sionis, the words his brother was avoiding about what Sionis _really_ did to Dick. Jason might've been delicate out of respect for Dick and to keep Damian from understanding, but Tim can read between the lines. He can understand what Black Mask is doing and has been doing for a long time.

Besides, Dick and Sionis have been parading around in some facsimile of a _couple,_ after all. The implications of that aren't hard to see.

Bruce doesn't reply right away, continuing to keep his focus on the computer, and then finally turns around in his chair to face Tim.

"You took off the afternoon," he says. Tim doesn't have to ask how Bruce knows that; Tim might be the one actually _actively_ working at Wayne Enterprises, but Bruce still knows everything that goes on there with every employee. He's a control freak like that.

"I saw Dick," Tim replies. Bruce's mouth twitches, a minute movement of surprise. Tim only sees it because he knows Bruce so well. "He picked me up, and then Damian, Cass, and Jason. We got to spend a few hours with him."

Bruce remains silent, but he doesn't have to speak for Tim to hear his questions.

"We weren't allowed to ask him questions," Tim says evenly, "but far as I can tell, he was given _permission_ for this little outing. You see, there's a lot of information the rest of us haven't had recently. Things you've kept from us for reasons that I don't care to dissect, but that affect us all." He pauses. "Dick told Jason he could tell us. So we know everything now, Bruce. Or at least Cass and I do; we're going to keep Damian as much in the dark as we can about what Mask is doing to Dick. I'm sure you can understand why."

"And where is Damian?" Bruce asks, gaze flicking towards the staircase past Tim. "He has a tendency to listen in on conversations."

"He's not here," Tim says. His nails are digging into his palms, and he forces his fists to loosen a little. "When Dick was Batman, he and Damian spent a large portion of their time living in the Wayne Foundation penthouse apartment; Cass and Damian are there now. I figured if Damian can't stay here, he should at least have a familiar environment to live in."

Bruce's expression is perfectly blank, but his eyes narrow slightly. "And why is it that my twelve-year-old son will no longer be living under my roof?"

"Because apparently you hit your children," Tim says bluntly, and Bruce sucks in a breath. "And I don't think you'd ever lay a hand on Damian, or me or Cass. But I also thought you'd never lay a hand on Dick, either. So we've decided we're not taking the chance."

He tales a deep breath, tasting something sour, and adds, "Because Damian would let you, Bruce. He and I might not get along, but I can acknowledge how awful his upbringing was. And if you hit him, he'd let you. He'd let you do it over and over again, because before Dick that's the only kind of affection Damian knew from his family. So he's not going to be staying here."

"Tim," Bruce says hoarsely, closing his eyes. "I'm not—I would _never—"_

"I know," Tim interrupts, quiet and soft, "but you already have. More than once, apparently. You lose control, and you—hurt people you love. That can't happen again. So while we all process this, while the family has a chance to really digest what's happened and figure out what to do next for Dick, Damian's going to be living at the penthouse. Cass and I are going to take turns staying with him."

Damian hadn't been happy with this course of action. He'd seen it as them babying him, thinking he couldn't handle the harsher realities of their father, but the whole thing with Dick shook him up enough that he didn't take too much convincing. He'd then decided he could stay there by himself and be perfectly fine, but that absolutely wasn't going to happen. They'd work out a schedule, make sure there was always someone to look after the youngest of them.

Besides, Dick would kill them if they just left Damian all alone.

"You can't take my son from me," Bruce says, voice thick.

Tim blinks. "I mean, I could," he says honestly. "CPS has visited the Manor enough times because of injuries gotten as heroes that if I went to the police and said you were abusing your children, they'd believe me, and they'd take Damian out of your custody while investigating. Cass and I are both over eighteen, so we could legally take him in. We can go that route if you want to, B. But I _really_ don't want to do that, and I know you don't either. That's a level of drama that is highly unnecessary."

"Hitting Dick was a mistake," Bruce says. He's making a clear effort to gain control of himself, opening his eyes again. "It—I was grieving, and I lashed out, and I regret it immensely. It never should've happened."

"And what about the other times?" Tim asks. He counts his breaths in his head, keeping his calm. He wants this nightmare to be over. "That wasn't the only time you hit him, was it?"

Bruce purses his lips, shakes his head wordlessly. Tim lets out a sigh through his nose.

"Yeah," Tim says softly. "So, for the foreseeable future, Damian won't be staying here. We'll figure out a way to help Dick and get that sorted out, and then we can reexamine the situation. Okay?"

"If this is what you need to do," Bruce says carefully. "But I'd never lay a hand on you or Cassandra or Damian. You're my children, and I'll never do that again. You're safe in this house."

"I want to believe you," Tim says honestly. Because _fuck_ does Tim want to believe that. But Dick's the best of them, and if even the best of them isn't untouchable, then he can't trust that they're perfectly safe. "But right now, Bruce..."

Tim shakes his head. "We have something else to focus on, anyway. We have to save Dick. So what's your progress been on that?"

* * *

Dick doesn't want to get out of bed.

He wants to continue lying there staring at the wall. He wants to pull the blanket over his head and curl into a ball, hidden from the world. He wants the sun to stop rising and the clock to stop ticking. He wants to close his eyes and simply not exist for a little while.

He gets up anyway.

Roman's in the shower in the ensuite bathroom, and Dick has no intention of giving the man any ideas, so he heads to the bathroom near the dining room instead for his own shower. The relief of being able to remove the collar for it is a bit of a balm against having to get up at all, and Dick grabs a tube of IcyHot from the cabinet above the sink to rub into the muscles of his neck, sighing with pleasure.

He showers quickly and blow dries his hair, lips twisting with distaste as he puts the collar back on. These days he tries to avoid his reflection when he can—no interest in seeing the bruises Roman leaves behind, or the tired look in his eyes, or the claim around his neck—but he has two gymnastics classes today, which means he has to apply concealer to the bruises that his exercise clothing won't cover, like the hickie on the underside of his jaw and the circles around his wrists.

And the bags under his eyes, of course.

With that done, he makes his way back to the bedroom to get dressed for the day. He catches a glance of Roman at the dining room table as he passes, and he hurries his steps; he's only wearing a towel at the moment, and Roman's always been one to take advantage of an opportunity.

Luckily, Roman either doesn't notice him going by the doorway or doesn't care enough to stop him, so Dick makes it back to the bedroom unaccosted. Of course, he _does_ have to sit down to eat breakfast with Roman, so anything's always possible.

The very idea of Roman putting his hands on him right now...

Last night was a long night, filled with nightmares and waking up with a scream on the tip of his tongue. Of course _Roman_ slept like a baby, content with the hell he'd put Dick through during the gala and—after.

Dick closes his eyes and swallows back the nausea he feels at the reminder of what he had to do to _apologize_ to Roman for wanting the man to follow through on what he'd said. How on point he'd been all night, and then had the art show ripped away from him.

_What a whore you are, expecting payment for everything you do._

Dick shoves the thoughts away, locking them in the back of his mind and heading to the dining room.

He's very good at compartmentalizing. He has to be.

"Good morning, Roman," Dick murmurs as he sits down, the manners burned into his brain by this point.

A glance over to the other man's plate shows that he's already started eating, which means Dick can, too. He takes some eggs, bacon, and fruit, and eats quietly and quickly, keeping one eye on the clock and one eye on Roman. Luck must be in his favor this morning, because other than a distracted greeting, Roman doesn't even glance at him the entire time they're sitting there, attention on the laptop sitting off to the side of the table.

With some relief, Dick sees the clock hit 8am, the time Lou and Joseph are set to pick him up to take him back to Bludhaven for his classes. It's only three times a week, and absolutely the best parts of his life.

"May I be excused?" Dick asks, pushing his chair back.

Roman looks over, eyes flicking over him, and then nods. "Have fun with the brats."

Dick bites back any response he might have to that because it's absolutely not worth it. He stands and heads back towards the bedroom, passing the elevator on his way. It opens just as he passes, admitting his two watchers to the penthouse. He offers them a mock salute and keeps going.

Sitting on the top of the right bedside table is the "choker" he wears out in public. There's a few of them—some very classy, that are created to match tuxedos for special events—but out of all of the symbols of his imprisonment this is the one Dick prefers; it's softer and a little looser than the others, so when he has a choice, he goes for this one.

It's the one he was wearing when he saw his family, the one Jason saw right through.

No. Thoughts of his family right now are...hard. After last night. He needs to make another box in his brain for these feelings. They're too much right now. Too much. _Too much._

"Alright, let's go," Dick says, striding back towards the elevator. He pulls on his sneakers and grabs his gym bag, feeling some tension drain out of his shoulders as the elevator doors close on the penthouse, removing it from sight.

* * *

Emily Parker is ten years old and three quarters, and when she grows up she's going to be a master gymnast.

Her teacher Mr. Grayson says so, at least. He's definitely not shy about praising his students, and Emily overheard Mr. Grayson telling her parents that he really thinks Emily has a real gift and a future on this path, if she wants it. That she's one of his students he could see qualifying for the Olympics, if she puts in the work.

Emily wants to put in the work.

She doesn't see Mr. Grayson as often as she used to, though. Emily takes three different classes a week at the gym, and Mr. Grayson used to be the instructor for two of the three, but about two months ago he passed off some of his classes to other coaches. Now Emily's only in one of his classes, and she knows that other students have faced a similar problem.

Mr. Grayson is the best, and they all know it. If you want to do something with gymnastics, he's the one you want to teach you. And he's always so supportive, so kind, and even though mama says Emily shouldn't worry about money Emily knows they struggle a lot, and that Mr. Grayson easily looks the other way when they—and others—struggle to make the occasional payment for lessons.

Emily misses him. They all do.

Her mom was watching some gossip program on the TV a few days ago, and Emily heard her say something to daddy about Mr. Grayson getting wrapped up in things he shouldn't be, but they wouldn't explain when Emily asked what that meant, or who the scary looking man on the TV was. And Emily didn't know why her mom looked so sad.

But today is _Saturday,_ which means today is Mr. Grayson's class.

There's traffic, so Emily is late to class, bouncing impatiently up and down in the passenger seat of her dad's truck and then running towards the building as soon as they pull to a stop. Emily quickly takes off her shoes and jacket and puts her belongings in the locker that has her name on it, rushing towards the main gym.

When she gets there, Mr. Grayson is leading the other students through warm up stretches, and a few of them giggle when Mr. Grayson offers her a knowing smile and says, "Glad you could join us, Ms. Parker."

Emily blushes and mutters an apology, moving over to an open spot in the group and settling into the butterfly pose everyone else is in the middle of.

The class goes well, as it always does. Mr. Grayson is a good teacher, and a good person too. There's been something wrong with him recently, ever since he lessened the classes he taught, and it makes Emily sad that her teacher is sad. He hides it well, but there are moments when he thinks no one's watching him that he just looks so _tired._

Her mom says that kids are more observant than adults and that's why people don't like listening to what kids have to say. But Mr. Grayson's always listened to them. And Emily wishes she could make him happy again.

"Good job, everyone," Mr. Grayson says with a smile, when the class is over. "Practice those tucks for next week, okay?" He shakes his head, chuckling. "But try to avoid knocking over your parents' expensive items this time."

Another girl in the class sighs in a dramatic fashion and petulantly mumbles, "One time."

Mr. Grayson dismisses them, exchanging a few words with some of the parents, and then heads over to the equipment they used and begins to wipe it down. Emily's dad is always a little late when it's his turn to pick her up—mom says daddy would be late to his own funeral—so it's not unusual for Emily to go over and offer her help while she waits.

Mr. Grayson hands her a damp washcloth with a smile and a quiet, "Thank you." She chatters while they work, talking about what they're doing in school and how her other lessons are going. He makes noises at the appropriate times and asks relevant questions, and it's rare that an adult actually sounds interested in what she has to say. Besides, some of her teachers say she talks too much.

Just before they're done, the man with the scar on his cheek who's always in the stands during Mr. Grayson's lessons walks over. Mr. Grayson frowns, placing himself between her and the man, stance shifting oddly.

"What is it, Joseph?" Mr. Grayson asks cautiously.

The man offers Mr. Grayson the cellphone in his hand. "The boss for you."

Mr. Grayson grimaces and takes the phone like he'd really rather not. He presses it against his chest to cover the microphone and looks at Emily with what's probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, but is strained more than anything else. "Emmy, would you put the lids on the chalk containers for me?" he asks, nodding a few feet away, further from the man with the scar.

Emily nods quickly and moves away, feeling anxious for a reason she can't quite tell.

"Hi," Mr. Grayson says quietly, lifting the phone to his ear, a furrow already forming between his eyebrows. "What's...?" A long pause, and then Mr. Grayson lets out a breath through his nose. "Roman, I was going to—" He cuts off, pressing his lips into a thin line. "I—" Cuts off again, this time closing his eyes. "Right, I'm sorry. I'll be there. Bye."

He hands the phone back to the man with the scar and rubs a hand across his face. He looks so tired, shoulders slumping, and Emily glares at the scarred man in solidarity. The man spots her and raises an eyebrow, almost looking amused, and then heads back towards the bleachers to sit in his normal spot.

"I'll be here while you get ready, Mr. Grayson," the man says to her teacher, and the gymnast nods with a quiet sigh. The door opens, echoing loudly in the open space, and Emily's father enters, looking over at her with a chagrined expression.

Between one blink and the next, Mr. Grayson goes from a defeated posture to the same warm and welcoming teacher he always is, greeting her father and brushing away his apologies for being late. He offers Emily a high-five in goodbye and tells her he'll see her Tuesday.

As Emily walks out the main gym door, she looks back and sees Mr. Grayson heading towards the staff locker room, head hanging in defeat.

* * *

Dick's plan for the day had been to teach his two classes, spend an hour in the gym by himself, and then get some lunch at a nearby diner before returning to the penthouse to resume his life as a show pony.

Instead, he's using the gym shower in the staff locker room directly after his second class, having to get dressed in the nice suit hanging in his locker—because god forbid he have normal clothes to wear out and about—to go meet Roman for an impromptu lunch in Gotham.

There's probably a point to this. Someone Roman wants to see them together, or to prove a point to someone, or to make a point to _him,_ and it's very unlikely that he'll _tell_ Dick what the point of it is. Or, on the other hand, there might be absolutely zero point, and Roman just decided to fuck with Dick's day because he could.

Yeah, that's probably it.

He feels cleaner after the shower, having washed away the sweat of two active classes, and begins reapplying concealer to the bruises that will show outside the suit. Two other teachers come in while he's doing it, and he pretends he doesn't see the way their eyes linger on the injuries, gazes sympathetic.

When he's fully dressed, he heads out to the main gym and follows Joseph back to the car, glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye.

He'd known, of course, that Joseph wouldn't have hurt Emily. There was no reason to, and Joseph isn't the kind of man to senselessly hurt people, definitely not children. Emily's only a couple years younger than Joseph's own daughter, as well, which is more points in her favor. But it had been instinct to put himself between the criminal and the young child.

The car ride back to Gotham is quick and calm, not many people spending their Saturday moving between two shit cities. They make their way into Gotham's upper side, which is highly unsurprising, and then pull up in front of one of Roman's favorite—and one of Gotham's most expensive—restaurants.

The maître d' recognizes Dick immediately—from the times he's gone there both with Bruce and with Roman—and greets him with the warmth befitting sucking up to a rich person, escorting him towards Roman's table.

Roman stands when Dick arrives at the table, ever the gentleman, before sitting with him. The waiter appears almost immediately, and Dick isn't the slightest bit surprised when Roman rattles off orders for them both, not waiting for Dick to give his opinion on what he would like; it's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last.

"How were your classes?" Roman asks, and listens attentively as Dick gives the run down, even commenting on a piece here or there in a non-rude fashion. This part of being with Roman is always the most uncomfortable, the part where he actually talks to Dick like a normal human being. Because he's _not,_ in Roman's eyes. He's his property. So when Roman makes casual, polite conversation—Dick almost wishes he wouldn't do it.

 _Almost,_ because even with how unsettling it can be, it's nice to have a bit of a break from the constant mind games. If Roman wasn't who he is, he'd be a good conversation partner.

They've been there for about half an hour when Roman decides to let the other shoe drop. The older man stands with a polite, "Excuse me," heading off in the direction of the bathroom. Dick would think nothing of it if not for the way Roman crooks two fingers over his shoulder as he walks away.

Dick stares after him, lips pressed into a thin line, and wonders if he could get away with pretending he didn't see the obvious call for him to follow. It was such a small motion, easy for anyone to miss.

But Roman is Roman, and he knows who Dick is. He knows there's no way Dick wouldn't have seen the movement. And he'll become irritated if Dick tries to play obtuse.

So, Dick stands, placing his napkin on the table and pushing in his chair, and heads over to the men's restroom.

Roman's standing at one of the sinks when he gets there, washing his hands, and there's another man finishing up at a urinal. Dick steps up to one of the other sinks, looking in the mirror and running a hand through his hair like he's come to the bathroom to freshen up. He keeps up the farce until the stranger has left.

He doesn't move as Roman casually moves to the door and locks it, shutting the pair of them in and everyone else out. Dick doesn't move, watching Roman through the reflection in the mirror as the older man strolls back over and steps up behind him, hands coming up to rest on his hips.

Dick swallows his nausea.

"You look stunning in that suit," Roman tells him, breath washing across Dick's neck as the man leans in, pressing up against his back.

"Thank you," Dick says automatically. His hands clench on the edge of the countertop as one of Roman's hands drifts around and undoes his belt and zipper, sliding into Dick's pants.

Dick lets his eyes drift shut as Roman begins to stroke him, but opens them again when Roman whispers, "Look at me."

Roman, four inches taller than him, looks larger than life pressed so closely against his back in the view of the mirror. His eyes are dark and lidded, a satisfied, hungry smile curving his lips. The hand not stroking Dick to hardness goes upward, gripping the back of Dick's neck and pressing forward. Dick follows the instruction, bending over, resting his weight on his forearms on the countertop beside the sink. This new position puts him even closer to the mirror, and his eyes flick away from his own reflection to Roman, waiting for what comes next.

Because what comes next is terribly obvious.

Sure enough, Roman rocks his hips forward against Dick's ass, hand speeding up around Dick's cock. Dick moans quietly, head dipping forward, and then cries out when Roman's grip turns painful, head jerking right back up. Going by the satisfied look that flashes across Roman's face, that was the goal, and Dick understands the rules now.

Roman withdraws his hand from Dick's cock and pushes Dick's pants and underwear down, just far enough to reveal his ass. He pulls a small bottle of lube out of his inside jacket pocket, and squirts some out on his fingers, wasting no time in inserting two immediately into Dick's ass. Dick grunts, spreading his legs a little to make the intrusion hurt less, but the way his pants are sitting makes that movement difficult.

Roman stretches him quickly, and for once Dick isn't filled with distaste for it, knowing they're on a time frame here. At any moment, someone could have to go to the bathroom, and find the door locked, and call a manager, and then they're caught. So Dick can live with a little pain if it means he won't be caught in an extremely humiliating position.

As if reading his mind, Roman leans in, taking Dick's earlobe between his teeth before murmuring, "It would hit the news within a half hour, don't you think? Spotted: Wayne heir so desperate for sex that he bends over in public like a common whore where anyone could see him."

In tandem with the end of his sentence, Roman curls his fingers against Dick's prostate, drawing a moan out of him. Roman smirks, and his voice is a goad when he says, "Does that idea turn you on, baby? All these high-society fucks seeing you for the slut you really are, spreading your legs in a _bathroom?"_

Dick shakes his head, but he knows arguing is pointless. His breathing is starting to pick up, and he bites his lips against another moan as Roman thrusts his fingers purposefully against Dick's prostate a couple times. He wants to drop the eye contact, wants to look away from the hunger in Roman's expression reflected in the mirror, but apparently this is what Roman wants this time, so—like always—Dick gives in to what the man wants.

Soon enough, Roman withdraws his fingers and lines up his cock instead. Dick makes an effort to relax, not that Roman gives him a moment to breathe before he's fucking roughly into him. It's a little more painful than usual, Dick unable to spread his legs and relieve some of the pressure in his ass, but Roman seems to be enjoying it, which means it'll end sooner, so Dick simply tries to contain his grunts.

"Look at you, baby," Roman breathes. _"Look_ at yourself."

Dick follows the command, pulling his eyes away from Roman's and meeting his own in the mirror. He's flushed, his pupils dilated, his mouth hanging open as he pants for air. He jerks closer to the mirror with each thrust, and he watches himself moan as Roman once again grabs ahold of his cock, jerking him off quickly.

Dick comes soon after, and Roman less than a minute later. Dick grimaces as he feels Roman's cum filling him up, his own cum soaking the inside of his underwear, and grunts as Roman pulls out roughly.

But almost immediately after, something enters him again, and Dick looks up at Roman in confusion. The older man smirks at him, arm twisting and whatever it is in his ass presses in more quickly, making Dick gasp.

"Roman, what...?"

"Don't want you losing my cum, sweetheart," Roman purrs. "That would be _ungrateful_ of you, don't you think?"

Dick swallows his response to such a comment, and when Roman peels himself off of Dick's back, he reaches around to feel what the thing is. His fingers brush over a wide silicone base, and he sighs, recognizing a buttplug. He lets his eyes close for a moment, shaking his head, and then straightens up, wincing as the plug inside of him shifts, grimacing at the feeling of his sticky underwear.

Glancing back at Roman shows a satisfied smirk on the man's face, and Dick smiles tightly back at him as he straightens his clothing. Twisting this way and that, he's relieved to see that there's no suspicious spots on his clothes—dark underwear and black pants have worked in his favor.

"Why don't we go finish our meal, hm?" Roman says happily, and unlocks the door, striding right back out the door.

Dick takes an extra moment to breathe, washing his hands and fixing his hair, making sure he's perfectly presentable. Then and only then does he get himself to walk back out into the restaurant. He's sure no one's noticed, that no one knows what just happened, but his cheeks still burn at the idea that they all know what he just did.

It's paranoia, of course. Barely anyone even glances at him, and those that do simply smile politely before going back to their meals.

Sitting back down makes his eyes twitch, his underwear squelching and the buttplug pushing further into his ass. Roman smirks at him over his wine glass, expression knowing, and delves right back in to casual conversation, like he hadn't just fucked Dick in the bathroom five minutes ago.

Dick gets ahold of himself, taking a big sip of his own wine to help settle his nerves. Before all of this with Roman, Dick really hadn't been a big wine drinker. But Roman has wine at every meal save breakfast, and thus so does Dick. You get used to the taste after a little while, though he still isn't fond of the particular warmth wine makes in his chest.

It's another fifteen minutes later that someone suddenly approaches their table. For a moment Dick thinks it's the waiter coming to check on them, but the individual yanks over a chair and plops himself down, leaning forward.

Dick looks over to a familiar face and his eyes go wide.

"Hiya, Dickie," Roy Harper says, gaze sharp, smile sharper. "Been a while."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See y'all next Thursday 😁


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ the Anon on tumblr who left me a looooooong message in my inbox (utilizing 4 separate asks after running out of characters 3 times): Would you like a puppy? I'd like to give you a puppy. That long ass message made my day 💜
> 
> Also you're always welcome to talk to me off anon, as is everyone. I love talking to you guys! I'm a simple writer, one who loves to babble about my stuff 😁
> 
> Small warning for some racial slurs in this chapter!

There's a ringing in Dick's ears.

"Roy," Dick says, and he can hear the strain in his voice. "What are you doing here?" His gaze flicks to Roman, trying to gauge his reaction, and finds the older man watching them with narrowed eyes. One of Roman's guards at the next table over gets to his feet, at the ready. "You—should go."

"Go?" Roy echoes, tilting his head. He doesn't even _glance_ at Roman or the guard, attention solely on Dick. "But I just _got_ here, Dick. I thought maybe we could catch up."

Dick laughs a little, forced and strained. "Then call me," he says. "We can set up a time to hang out. Right now I'm—"

"See, I _tried_ calling you," Roy muses. "And texting you. So did Wally. But each time, no response. Which is very odd, considering in the past you've had a pretty great habit of always answering your phone." He smirks, and even though he still doesn't look at Roman, it's clear that some of his attention has shifted to the other man. "I wonder what's changed."

"Richard," Roman cuts in smoothly, "would you like to introduce me to your friend?"

No, no Dick really would not like to do that. In fact he'd like just about anything other than making Roman aware of Roy. What is Roy even _doing_ here? This isn't supposed to happen, the Titans are supposed to stay _far_ away from Gotham and this whole mess. And isn't Roy supposed to be on a long mission right now? Dick distinctly remembers learning about that before all this, that Roy was teaming up with Dinah for some long-term undercover-type mission. How is Roy even here now? _Why_ is Roy even here now?

Without waiting for Dick, Roy finally turns in his chair to look at Roman, offering his hand to shake. "Hey, I'm Roy Harper."

Roman takes the hand with a polite smile, but Dick knows him well enough to see the displeasure thrumming through him. He doesn't appreciate this interruption, and Dick's going to pay for it later. _Dammit, Roy, stay out of this._ "Roman Sionis."

"Oh, I know," Roy says, smiling with a hint of teeth. Dick wants to rip his hair out; what the hell is Roy _doing,_ getting so defensive like this? He's going to mess everything up—

"Roy and I know each other from my early days with Bruce," Dick rushes to explain, forcing himself to sound offhand and not like he's five seconds from a heart attack. "Roy was Oliver Queen's ward, so he and I tended to get thrown together whenever at the same fancy parties."

Roman hums in recognition. "Right, right, the Indian kid." Roy's eyes narrow. "It seemed like a trend at the time, white billionaires taking in minority kids," Roman continues, and though his tone is absent like he's talking about the weather, it's clear he knows what he's saying is offensive. "After all, Bruce Wayne took in a gypsy and Oliver Queen someone straight off a reservation."

Dick barely keeps himself from cringing at the slur. Roy's jaw drops open incredulously, his back straightening in a familiar way that tells Dick the redhead is gearing up for a fight. _"What_ did you just call him?"

"I think you should go," Dick says with a smile, always with a smile, before Roman can say anything in response. _Please, Roy, please._ "We'll catch up some other time, okay? We're kind of in the middle of something."

Roy snorts, and drags his cold gaze away from Roman. "Yeah, Dick, I can _smell_ what you're in the middle of."

Dick's cheeks flame bright red and his eyes dart away, unable to look at his friend. Christ, is it that obvious? Can everyone around them smell the unique mix of sweat and cum that loudly proclaims what they just did in the bathroom?

"You have no right to judge me," Dick says shortly.

Roy's eyes go wide, looking genuinely surprised. _"Judge_ you? You think I'm _judging you?_ Dickie, trust me, if there's anyone at this table I'm judging, it _definitely_ isn't you."

"Why are you here, Roy?" Dick asks desperately. _Please go, please leave. You'll make everything so much worse. And you'll...you'll know. I don't want you to know what's really happening here._

"Lian's birthday party was a few days ago," Roy tells him. Dick's breath catches. _Oh._ "She was disappointed that her Uncle Dick didn't show up, and we were all pretty surprised. That's when we realized how long it's been since any of us talked to you. I had to swing by Bludhaven anyway for a job, so I thought I'd track you down; imagine my surprise when I found someone else living in your apartment."

"I'm sorry I missed her birthday," Dick says as evenly as he can manage. Shit, he loves that little girl. He changed her diapers, was present for the first time she said a full sentence, babysat her countless times. Hell, he met her before _Roy_ even did, and all of the Titans always viewed her as their family from the very first moment. "But I've been busy."

"Busy," Roy drawls, gaze flicking lazily over to Roman. "Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"Roy—" Dick starts harshly.

"What does he have over you?" Roy asks bluntly. Dick's heart pounds too fast in his chest.

"Excuse me?" Roman asks, the perfect picture of surprise and offense. "I don't know what you th—"

"I would've done this conversation one-on-one," Roy says apologetically, talking over the other man. Roman's expression darkens, and fear freezes Dick automatically at such a look. This is going to blow back on him later. This is going to _hurt._ "But the problem is that you never seem to be alone, so we do what we must."

"Please go," Dick says, and he knows he sounds a little desperate now. He can't help it, he _is_ desperate. He takes a breath, tries to pull himself back together, not that it'll do much good; Roy's known him longer than most, and has always been good at reading him when he'd rather not be read.

"Dick—"

"He doesn't have anything over me, okay?" Dick says firmly. He adds a chagrined note to his voice, wry and embarrassed. "I haven't been returning your calls because I knew you wouldn't approve of this relationship. That's my bad, alright? I'm sorry, you're my friend, I should've handled this better."

"Do you honestly think I'm going to buy that, Robbie?" Roy asks incredulously, unconsciously falling back on an old nickname, and Dick withholds a curse as he sees it catch Roman's attention.

"There's nothing to buy," Dick grits out. "And frankly this is none of your business. Go home, Roy. I'll call you sometime, we'll work something out. But I want you to leave us alone now."

Roy narrows his eyes at him, displeased, and Dick _knows_ his friend isn't going to drop this. They've been through too much together over too many years for him to do so. And Dick can't even blame him; if their positions were reversed, Dick wouldn't rest until he'd helped his friend.

"Alright," Roy says slowly, eyes narrowed. "I'll leave you to your lunch, then. I have to meet up with Wally, anyway." Wally, _shit._ "But I'll be seeing you, Dick." It sounds like a promise and a threat all rolled into one.

Slowly, his friend stands up and walks away, hands clenched at his sides. Dick wants to scream at him to come back, to beg him to help him, but he bites his tongue; the less people involved in this—the less people who _know—_ the better.

Dick forces himself to stop watching the archer disappear, turning his attention back to Roman. The man is staring at him with cold, narrowed eyes, making Dick's throat clog, his lungs tight. Shit, shit, shit, _shit._

"Let's go," Roman says coolly, and flags down the waiter.

* * *

It rings and rings and goes to voicemail. "Pick up your damn phone, Jason. I'm coming over. We need to talk."

* * *

Thankfully, Roman at least waits until they've gotten back to the penthouse before he does anything.

He crowds Dick roughly against the wall and grips his chin, forcing Dick to meet his eyes. Dick tries to do it calmly, trying to show nothing's changed, Roy's visit means nothing, is barely a blip on Dick's radar.

"You want to explain what that was to me, sweetheart?" Roman says lowly.

"It wasn't anything," Dick says, a tad breathless. "An old friend, concerned by my lack of contact, that's it. Roman, that's _it."_

"He called you _Robbie,"_ Roman says next, and Dick's heart seizes. "Seeing as that's in no way a nickname for _Richard,_ I can only assume that means he knows your secret identity. Why would that be, hm? When you guard it oh-so-carefully, how come some random _wagon burner_ knows?"

Dick's nostrils flare at the term, and he has to take a few deep breaths to not just punch Roman for it. Dick's dealt with his fair share of racism—Gotham's elite sure had a lot to say about the Romani boy Bruce took in—and he saw Roy dealing with it growing up, too, but it's been a long while since someone was so outright about it.

Surprise, surprise, Roman is racist.

"I was young when I started going out as Robin," Dick says evenly, counting his breaths in his head. He won't let Roman find out who Roy is. He _won't._ "Roy was one of my closest friends; he spent quite a few nights at the Manor. In the beginning I was bad at putting all of my equipment away, and Roy was nosey; he found some of the batarangs I was tinkering with in my desk. So he learned who I was."

Roman hums. He tilts Dick's chin up further, bringing their faces closer together. "Tell me something, Richard," Roman says, his breath washing across Dick's lips. "In all those nights that older boy stayed the night, did he ever fuck you?"

Dick lets out a startled laugh. _"Roy?"_ he asks incredulously. "No! It's not like that—"

"Really?" Roman questions doubtfully. He's smiling now, but it's a cruel expression. "No childish fumblings between friends? No sneaking around behind your respective fathers' backs at all those boring parties you both had to attend?"

Dick's cheeks heat at the implication. Sure, he'd spent some time attracted to Roy when he was younger, but that's because he was going through puberty while leading the Teen Titans and Roy was—and _is—_ a very attractive person. But that's all it was, a brief crush, something Dick moved out of a _long_ time ago. Roy is one of his best friends, almost like his big brother; there was never anything like that between them.

Besides, Dick's pretty sure _all_ of the Titans had a crush on Roy at one point or another; Donna's just the only one whose crush ended up becoming anything.

 _"No,"_ Dick says firmly. "Seriously, Roman, it wasn't like that."

Roman watches him for a moment, judging the truthfulness of that statement, and then seems to accept it. Dick's relieved; he isn't sure what kind of thing this would've become if his answer had been _yes,_ and he really isn't interested in finding out.

"It does make me wonder, though," Roman murmurs. "How many people _have_ fucked you?"

Dick's eyes widen, and his voice is a little squeaky when he says, "I—sorry?"

Roman smirks. He uses his grip to tilt Dick's head to the side, then lowers his own to start kissing along the line of Dick's neck, teeth grazing the skin. "You heard me, sweetheart. Other than me, how many people have used that ass of yours?"

Dick shivers, swallows. "I..."

He tries to think, but he isn't sure. In the seven years between leaving Roman the second time and getting trapped by him the third, Dick explored his sexuality, figuring out what he actually liked and didn't like. He slept with a good amount of people. Some of it was heavily self-destructive, and some far healthier.

The last few years, especially, Dick has settled into a safe rhythm with just a few known partners. But there was a long period of time where he let people do whatever the hell they wanted to him—courtesy of the mindset Roman gifted him with—which means the number of people who have fucked him isn't exactly low. He's not proud of it, but it's what happened.

Dick's hesitation has drawn Roman's attention, and the older man draws back slightly, examining Dick's expression curiously. Whatever he sees makes his lips part, eyes widening slightly incredulously, and he laughs.

"Oh, _baby,"_ Roman says, still chuckling. _"Richard._ When I called you a whore I didn't realize how true it actually was!"

Dick's cheeks warm. His eyes dart away, embarrassed despite himself. "I—"

"You don't even know," Roman coos, stroking the back of his hand down Dick's cheek. "You don't even know how many people have fucked you. Do you?" Dick doesn't answer right away, and Roman forces his eyes back up. _"Do you?"_

"No," Dick says hoarsely.

"How's that?" Roman asks. He looks delighted. "How did you go from the inexperienced little boy I trained to a loose cumslut?"

Dick cringes at the phrasing, hating the fact that it makes him feel dirty, knowing that was Roman's intent.

He debates lying, because he doesn't want to give this piece of himself to Roman. This is something small and dark that Dick keeps very guarded deep inside of him, something that no one deserves to know about. He's given so much of himself away the last two months, had so many secret things ripped out of him and made bare. But this is—fuck, it's so damaged and tarnished and private and _his,_ and no one has the right to know about it except for himself.

But there's no way to lie about this in a way that'll make himself seem any better, or make Roman any less pleased. Roman would know if he lied, and he'd be angry. So the truth it is.

"There was—I didn't think much of myself, after you. I let a lot of people—use me. I went to a lot of bars and clubs and didn't care what happened to me. It took me a while to get my personal life together, especially in regards to my sex life." A while and a terrifying phone call to a friend from the top of a tall building without a line, really, but not even Roman can pry that bit out of him.

"How interesting," Roman murmurs, still smirking. Dick doesn't like the look in his eyes; there's something dangerous there, something that means he's really not going to like what's going to happen. "Did you like being used like that, baby?"

"No—" Dick begins tiredly, honestly.

"You can't even give me a number," Roman interrupts with a laugh, uncaring. "You can't even tell me how many people have bent you over and fucked you until they were satisfied, and then left you there a sloppy mess. You can't tell me how many cocks have been down your throat, or up your ass, or how many people have come on your face. Jesus, sweetheart, at least tell me you were getting _paid_ for this."

Dick's lips curl back. "I'm not—"

"No, you simply did it because you _wanted_ it."

Dick startles. His heart _twists_ in his chest. _"No,_ that's not—"

"Oh yes," Roman interrupts, talking over him. "You let hundreds of men fuck you because you _wanted_ it, because you can't live without being _used."_

"Roman—"

"You don't have to lie to me baby, I know what a gigantic slut you are, and now I really understand the _scope_ of it. Have I even been satisfying you, Richard? Do you want more? Because I'm sure some of my men would be _happy_ to—"

"No!" Dick shouts, pulse rocketing. No, no, _no,_ that can't happen, he can't let that happen. He doesn't have a choice about Roman, he has to let the man do whatever he wants for his family, but he can't become some—he can't let Roman pass him around like a party favor, a congratulations to the men he thinks are working the hardest. He can't do that, he won't be able to stand it, he couldn't _h_ _andle_ it.

Roman draws back ever-so-slightly, gaze cooling. "Excuse me? Did you just say _no?"_

Dick swallows. Not good. Not good not good not good _not good._ "I..."

"Because I'm pretty sure I just heard you say _no,"_ Roman continues. He's not going to let this go. Panic starts to thrum in Dick's veins. "I think we've established I don't like that word, Richard. It's an _ungrateful_ word, don't you think?" He nods, as if confirming his own statement. "Yes, _very_ ungrateful. Almost like you don't appreciate all I've done for you. Are you ungrateful, sweetheart?"

"I'm not," Dick says hoarsely, hating himself. "I'm so—thankful, Roman."

Roman hums, nodding, and brushes his thumb over Dick's bottom lip. "I thought so, Richard. So what did you say to me?"

Dick bites the inside of his cheek, allowing the sharp throb to ground him for a moment, and then hesitantly says, "I simply meant...that I don't want anyone but you, Daddy. Your men would...they could never compare to you. You're all I need."

"Much better," Roman purrs, and then kisses him forcefully, devouring his mouth. Dick lets him, tilting his head up to make it easier for the other man. Roman's not really a kisser in general—which Dick is absolutely fine with—but when he does, it's always like this; dominant, claiming, licking into his mouth and taking what he wants from it, just like in every aspect of their relationship.

And also like in every aspect of their relationship, Dick lets it happen without complaint.

"It's a very good thing that Harper never fucked you," Roman tells him, dragging his teeth along Dick's jaw. He shoves a thigh between Dick's legs and rubs it firmly against Dick's crotch, making Dick groan. "Because if he had, I'd have to send some of my men to pick him up and bring him back here, just so I could have him beaten within an inch of his life and then shot in the head."

Dick sucks in a deep breath of air against the urge to vomit.

"So really," Roman continues, as if he hasn't just casually discussed killing his friend, "it's good that you can't give me names of the many, _many_ people who you've whored yourself out to, because honestly, I'd have to track each and every one of them down for the sole purpose of killing them for daring to think they could _ever_ lay hands on what belongs to me."

"Yours," Dick confirms, because he has to, and squeezes his eyes shut against the urge to cry.

"Mine," Roman snarls, and then pulls back. He hooks a finger under the collar around Dick's neck, using it to drag him along behind him as he strides down the hall towards the bedroom.

* * *

Wally winces as Roy bangs heavily on the door, glancing up and down the hall anxiously. It's a pretty bad neighborhood they've found themselves in, and yeah technically they're superheroes and could handle whatever danger came their way, but that doesn't mean Wally's in the mood to get into a fight. Roy's already amped up enough as it is; a fight right now would end very badly for whoever gets on the other side of Roy's fist.

"Open your damn door, Jason!" Roy shouts angrily, banging harder. Down the hall, a door opens, an elderly woman's head peeking out. Wally offers her an apologetic grimace and wave, and she goes back inside.

"Uh, Roy, maybe he's not home."

Roy grumbles something under his breath and then reaches into his jacket, pulling out a lockpicking kit. Wally rolls his eyes, quirking a smile, and watches Roy break into Jason Todd's apartment with enthusiasm.

The door swings open and Wally follows Roy inside. He's just shut the door behind them when a familiar man appears from down the hall, rubbing his eyes and frowning at the pair of redheads.

"What the hell, Roy?" Jason grumbles tiredly. His eyes flick to Wally momentarily. "Wallace."

Yeah, they've never really liked each other. Wally doesn't lose any sleep over it.

"I've been calling you," Roy says incredulously. "You haven't been answering. In times of crisis you answer your phone!"

Jason's eyebrows go up, and Wally can't blame him; ever since Roy left Dick at the restaurant, he's been ready to bash some heads in, in the way that Wally easily identifies as coming from a place of some serious worry. Roy is one of the most caring people Wally's ever met, and sometimes those protective instincts can come out a little...harsh, especially when he feels useless.

They've all had years to get used to this, really.

"I had a busy night, was trying to get some sleep," Jason tells them, running a hand through his hair, trying to force his bedhead into some form of order. "And what do you mean _times of crisis?_ I miss the end of the world again?"

 _"Dick,"_ Roy says emphatically.

Jason's expression goes blank, his eyes far more awake than they were a few moments ago. He heads towards the kitchenette and reaches up to a high shelf, pulling down three shot glasses and a bottle of what looks like tequila. Wally's eyebrows go up, but he follows Roy over to the kitchen island anyway as Jason pours out three shots.

"It's not even two in the afternoon, Jay," Roy comments, but he doesn't sound opposed to the idea. Wally would really like to understand what's going on with Dick that's got two of the strongest people Wally's ever met looking like _this._

"Yeah," Jason agrees gruffly, and slams back one of the shots. "But trust me, you're gonna want some alcohol to take the edge off when I explain all of this. Hell, I wish I could stay perpetually drunk these days."

Roy takes one of the shots, looks it over thoughtfully, and then downs it. Both Roy and Jason look at Wally then, gazes expectant.

"You guys know this does nothing for me, right?" the speedster says, gesturing towards the bottle of tequila.

"That," Jason says, "is very unfortunate. For you. Your life must be very dull." He points at the third shot glass. "Drink it anyway, West."

Wally sighs and does as he's told, grimacing at the brief burn, and then leans his elbows on the island. "So what's going on, Jason?"

"What are you guys even doing here?" Jason asks defensively. "How did you—why do you think something's going on with Dick?"

Roy and Wally give Jason twin unimpressed looks. "We're his _friends,_ Jason," Roy says. "When he doesn't respond to calls or texts for about two months and then both he _and_ the other Gothamite I for some reason spend time with—" a pointed look at the Gothamite in question, "—disappoint my daughter by not appearing for her birthday—" Jason winces, "—I'm gonna notice that hey, _maybe something's up!"_

The archer huffs, shaking his head, and then his expression sobers. "I tracked him down, Jay," he says tiredly. "Found him at some fancy ass lunch with fucking _Roman Sionis._ And it was—" He laughs, incredulous and sharp. "Nuh-uh, that was messed up. He was _not_ there because he wanted to be. So what the hell is going on?"

"He wouldn't want you involved in this," Jason says seriously.

"You're probably right," Wally agrees. "Dick doesn't like anyone knowing when something's wrong; for some reason he thinks it makes him less than, somehow. To have feelings like a regular person."

"I blame the bat training," Roy interjects lightly, having never made his thoughts about Bruce Wayne a secret.

"Even so," Wally allows, because yeah he's had his issues with Bruce over the years, too. "Yeah, Dick would probably want us far away from whatever this is. But Jason, he's been our best friend for more than ten years—you can't expect us to just let this go. Not when he's in trouble."

Jason clenches his jaw, looking down, clearly thinking.

"He was afraid," Roy says quietly. "He was _so afraid,_ Jason. I'm not going anywhere without Dick, especially not until I get my fist in that asshole's face."

"Right," Jason sighs. "Guess I can't talk you into heading back to your respective cities and just waiting this out, huh?"

Roy and Wally don't move. Jason's mouth twitches into something of a smile.

"Okay," Jason says, and pours out three more shots. "This is kind of a long story..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter made me realize how I've never really written Roy Harper, which is insane because he's literally one of my favorite DC characters (despite the shitshow Lobdell did with him in New52, and TK in _Heroes in Crisis)_
> 
> IMPORTANT:  
> Batfam Week starts this Sunday, and as I will be participating in all seven days, there won't be a new chapter of this next Thursday (March 12th). Instead, it'll be Day 5 of Batfam Week. Chapter 6 of NPOS will be up the week after (March 19th).
> 
> Alright, see you next time! Check out [my Batfam Week fics](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640407) if you're interested!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now back to our regularly scheduled programming!

"This is a fucked up plan."

"I mean—"

"A fucked up plan that is absolutely insane."

"You're repeating yourself."

"It needs to be repeated because _holy fuck."_

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"No, but that doesn't mean your plan is in any way something we should do!"

"We have to try! _...I_ have to try."

"...Okay. Okay, what do you need us to do?"

* * *

Dick swings himself up and around, up and around. He lets go, turning into a tight flip. He extends his body to catch the next bar.

Up and around. Up and around. He balances himself perfectly in the air, upside down, hands clasped tightly around the bar. His stomach muscles clench and loosen regularly as his body works to keep him in place, automatic after so many years as an acrobat and gymnast.

He pitches himself forward, and repeats the motions again and again.

_On your stomach._

Up and around. Let go, flip, extend, catch.

_My good little slut._

Grip tightly, balance upside down. Hope the blood rushes to his head quickly enough to make thinking hard. It doesn't work nearly well enough.

His body aches, and he's definitely being more active right now than is probably healthy given his back injuries, but he's never really been one for taking it easy and right now he needs to be in motion. Well, what he _really_ needs is a few tall buildings and a grapple, that would _really_ bring him some peace right now. Especially with a mask over his eyes. Maybe a couple bad guys to beat up.

But this is the best he's going to get right now. And it helps.

_You look so beautiful all strung out like this._

He pushes himself harder, moving out of the simple twists and into a more complex routine.

_Just for me. All mine._

Swing up, release, flip one-two-three—

"Dammit," Dick curses, extending quickly to catch the next bar and not crash to the ground. He uses his momentum to swing around and twist, sitting down on top, bracing his hands to either side of him to keep his balance, and bows his head.

"Dammit," he says again, biting his lip harshly so the pain can distract him from the urge to cry. Why did he even try the quadruple? He's in no state, and the lack of ability at the moment is only going to serve to make him more upset.

He waits until his breathing is even and his eyes don't sting anymore, and then pitches forward and gets back to it.

_Scream for me, baby._

He tends to lose time when he's up in the air, but he knows Joseph will tell him when it's time to leave. On Mondays he always gets to spend longer at the gym after his class, because Mondays are typically a full work day for Roman. Dick has never asked why; the less he's involved in Roman's work, the better.

Swing up and around, up and around, up and around. Release, flip one-two, extend, catch, swing up and around.

His back protests each and every movement, the injured skin stretching, but he ignores it, pushing it to the back of his mind. Up and around, up and around, release, flip, extend, catch, up and around, release, fly, catch, up and around...

On and on and on, until he can barely tell what's up and what's down, until his ears are pounding with blood and his body is tingling, until his focus is everywhere except life outside this gym—

He hears footsteps and glances over out of instinct, spotting Joseph approaching him.

So much for life outside not existing. He just _had_ to jinx himself.

He swings himself up, twists, and sits down on the bar, looking to his watcher expectantly. He knows what this is, it's going to be Joseph telling him it's time to wrap up, but he's not going back to the ground until he hears the words.

And, sure enough, Joseph tells him, "It's time to go, Mr. Grayson."

Dick sighs tiredly and nods, then leans forward and lets gravity take him, tucking into a few tight flips before landing on his feet on the mat beneath the uneven bars.

"Let me shower and change, and then I'll be good to go," Dick says, and Joseph nods his agreement.

He showers quickly, mainly just rinsing off the sweat from having been working out for so long, and then gets dressed, toweling his hair into something resembling dry. He heads back out into the gym with his bag, wondering if he can convince Joseph and Lou to take him somewhere for lunch instead of back to the penthouse, and then freezes.

Because there, standing in the middle of the gym, is Roman.

He almost can't compute that Roman's here, in his gymnasium. Because this is—it's _his gymnasium._ This isn't a place for Roman. This is the one place Roman _isn't,_ the place Dick can come and enjoy himself and teach a bunch of young children something he loves. This is his one escape, his one safe harbor in the fucking shitshow storm that is his life. This gym is happy and free and safe and _his._

Roman isn't supposed to be here. He isn't supposed to infect the one place Dick has left.

He's been frozen for too long, and Roman takes note of him, glancing over with a raised eyebrow. "It's nice," he comments, gesturing around. "It's clear you take good care of the space."

"Thank you," Dick replies. He does take care of this place; he cleans the equipment and wipes down the mats and fixes what needs to be fixed, because this is _his space,_ and he isn't going to disrespect the one place that is _his._

Roman doesn't say anything else as he begins to wander around, leisurely examining various pieces of equipment, running his hands over some of them. Dick takes note of which ones; he's going to have to reclean them, for his own peace of mind.

"Something happened today that freed me up much earlier than planned, and when I looked at the time I saw you'd still be here; thought I'd come see what all the fuss is about." He looks back over to Dick, who hasn't moved. "Why don't you show me some of your moves? I realized the only times I've ever seen you in action were the occasions you were attacking my men and making my life far more difficult."

Dick's gaze cuts around, automatically searching for anyone who might be listening and hear that comment implying his vigilante activities. But other than them is just Joseph, standing over on the other side of the door. Close enough to be called for if he's needed, but not watching and not listening.

Then Roman's request makes its way into Dick's brain. "I've already changed out of my gym clothes," he says, but he knows it's a weak defense in the face of something Roman wants.

Sure enough, Roman just gives him a look, expectant and condescending. Dick sighs, setting down his bag, mourning the calm lunch he was about to go have. Roman was supposed to still be off at work, until at least dinner time. He wasn't supposed to be _here_ of all places, making Dick do as he wants.

Dick heads back over to the uneven bars and reopens a chalk container, dusting some onto his hands.

Now, Dick is used to performing. Done it his whole life, at the circus and then as Bruce Wayne's ward. Even as a vigilante, as Robin and Nightwing and _especially_ as Batman—he's always performing, on some level or another. He's used to people's eyes on him, putting on a show, sometimes showing off. So really, this should be no different.

But it _feels_ different. It feels strangely...intimate, just him and Roman and a large empty gym, _Dick's_ large empty gym. He can feel Roman's eyes on him as he uses a small springboard to leap up to grab the bar and pull himself up. Feel him watching, examining, owning the space that only seconds ago belonged solely to Dick.

He tries his hardest to push all of that to the back of his mind and plan what he wants to do. When he feels settled enough, he begins.

After his parents died, and he began living with Bruce, there were so many major changes to his way of life; a circus to a mansion is quite the shift, after all. And Bruce always tried so hard to give Dick whatever he needed to make the transition easier. One of those things was finding the best gymnasium in Gotham for children's gymnastics and paying quite a lot of money for Dick to be allowed to do almost whatever the hell he wanted there.

He kept at it for a very long time. He liked the space, the other kids, the instructors, the familiarity of it. Every other day after school he was there at that gym. And he was good. No, he was better than good, he was _amazing._ A few of his instructors even recommended he go for the Olympic qualifiers. And _god_ did he want to. He could picture it, picture himself going all the way.

But he had priorities, at the time. Being Robin was his priority. Batman, the Teen Titans. And he doesn't regret making that decision at all, doesn't regret focusing on being a hero instead of putting in the time to go down the Olympic route. But he does wonder sometimes. How different his life might be now if he'd chosen the simpler path.

He swings upward, balancing on the bar, and splits his legs. He switches the positions of his hands, twirling around, and then closes his legs again and swings down and uses his momentum to swing all the way back around, switching his hands so he spins while he's still in motion. He does that once more, double this time, and he can't help but smile as he does it.

He goes around the bar again, and this time instead of switching his hands to spin he lets go completely, splitting his legs wide and flipping, then re-grabs the bar, continuing to swing around, and does the split-legged flip again on the other side. These have used up his momentum, so he pushes his legs up and then back, swinging until he's on top of the bar again.

He stays there for a moment and then lets himself pitch forward and around, switching his hands to twirl. He does it again, and then once more, and then releases and flips and catches the next bar, spinning himself around it with his legs in a split. He switches his hands to turn back towards the first bar and flips through the air back to it, catching and pulling himself around it in a tight curve.

He swings around, building momentum, and then releases the bar, flipping one-two-three and then landing on the mat below, knees bent, before standing tall. Raising his hands above his head is reflex at this point. He can almost hear the cheering of the crowds at the circus, or from his gymnastics competitions growing up with Bruce.

The slow, singular clap brings him back to reality.

Dick turns his head and spots Roman leaning against one of the pommel horses, ankles crossed, eyes locked onto the other man. He stops clapping and crooks a finger. Swallowing, Dick does as he's told, walking over to Roman, and doesn't fight when Roman snakes an arm around his waist, pulling them close together.

This shouldn't be happening here. This is his gym, Roman shouldn't be able to touch him in _his gym._ The one fucking place—

"You certainly are something to watch," Roman tells him, tilting his face down, his breath hot against Dick's cheeks and lips.

"Thank you," Dick says automatically.

"Do you miss it?" Roman asks, voice deceptively sweet. "The ability to do this any time you want?"

Dick hesitates, not wanting to admit to it. Because the obvious answer is _yes,_ of course he misses it. And Roman _knows_ he misses it, misses every aspect of the freedom he had before all this. So why ask? Does Roman want something from him, and he's offering an exchange? If he is, can Dick even trust Roman to keep his word? After that bullshit with Damian's art show...

Or maybe Roman's not after anything except the pleasure of messing with Dick.

"Yes," Dick says quietly, gaze flicking away and over the gym.

"I can see why," Roman says, dipping his head. "You truly were a sight—like gravity didn't even apply to you."

Dick brows furrow, confused by the persisting compliment. "Thank you," he says again.

"You clearly have such a good time here, considering how you rush out of the penthouse to get here any time you have class." Oh no, there's a note to his voice Dick doesn't like. "I must admit to having been _curious_ about the appeal of such a place, thought I needed to come and try it for myself." Wait, what? "How about this thing, then? What's this used for?"

Dick follows the older man's gesture to look at the pommel horse behind him.

"It—"

"Why don't you show me?"

Dick pauses, and then nods slowly, going along with whatever game Roman's playing at the moment. When he pulls back Roman doesn't resist, releasing him, and then moves out of the way to allow Dick to reach for the two bars of the pommel horse. His arms tense as he prepares to hoist himself up, but before he can move Roman is up against Dick's back, pressing him forward to trap him between the pommel horse and Roman's own body.

"Roman—" Dick says hesitantly, and cuts off when Roman kisses the back of his neck, a facsimile of something loving. One of Roman's hands settles on his hip, the other wrapping around to undo the button and zipper of Dick's jeans.

Dick's heart leaps in his chest, pounding with growing anxiety. _No, not here, please not here. Please don't do this here._

"I—"

"Sh, sh, shh," Roman says, nipping at the nape of Dick's neck, and pushes Dick's pants down to his ankles. "What's the matter, baby?"

"Can we do this at—home?" Dick tries. His hands are tight around the pommel horse bars. "Can we leave, please?" _Not here, not here, anywhere but the one place I have left—_

"But I want you now," Roman tells him, like _obviously_ that's all that matters, _obviously_ they're going to have sex in the gym because _Roman_ wants it. "Don't you want me too, sweetheart? Are you saying no?"

Dick wonders, sometimes, what Roman would do if he ever said _no._ He wouldn't stop, definitely not, consent doesn't mean jackshit to Roman. But what would he _do?_ How would he respond? Would he act like Dick didn't even say anything, like he did the first time they ever fucked, back when he was seventeen? Would he mock Dick for thinking he had that much power in this relationship? Would he taunt him, goad him to say it again when he knows Dick can't really deny him? Would he get harsher and harsher, as if to prove Dick's disapproval means nothing?

He's not curious enough to test it, because the trouble it brings wouldn't be worth it. But he wonders sometimes, is all.

Roman doesn't seem to care if Dick gives a response at the moment, and presses him forward, bending him over the pommel horse.

He's been teaching his older students tricks on this recently, showing them how to use it. They've been practicing, getting pretty good. He's never going to be able to look at it again without thinking of this. Roman's infecting the gym with the sickness that is his very being, burning away at the freedom Dick has clung to so desperately.

Roman starts to finger him open and Dick puts his mind elsewhere, trying to think of other things. He goes through the rosters of his classes, how each of his students are doing, what as a group needs to be worked on and who needs some extra attention.

He thinks about the other instructors, how Mara invited him to Justin's surprise birthday party, and how he _knows_ he won't be able to go but he told her maybe anyway. How they're all so kind, how before Roman came back into his life they were his friends, people he truly enjoyed hanging out with, people who didn't know jackshit about the superhero life. How they all look at him so sympathetically these days, like they all know.

A strong thrust against his prostate has Dick moaning and tuning back into reality around him. The pressure in his ass tells him he's blanked out through a lot, because that's Roman's cock deep inside him, not his fingers. One of Roman's hands is griping the back of his neck, holding him in place bent over the pommel horse. Dick starts to grunt with each thrust, body rocking uncomfortably.

He wishes he could go back to existing somewhere else in his mind.

Roman's other hand slides around his hip and wraps around Dick's cock, stroking out of time with his thrusts. Dick groans and he hears Roman laugh softly.

"Something you want, sweetheart?"

Dick bites his lip, trying to figure out what Roman wants right now. Sometimes he wants Dick to beg for release, but sometimes he likes it when Dick squirms and resists and tries to fight against the pleasure. Dick hates that part, because it always feels like he's playing into Roman's hand simply by trying to do what he wants to do, which is get very far away.

Roman doesn't press him for an answer, continuing to fuck into him and stroke him roughly, and Dick feels his toes curling, the end so close, and he knows him coming won't make Roman stop fucking him but at least it will make him stop jerking Dick off, and that would be an improvement on the current situation.

Dick's hips jerk forward into Roman's grip, and Roman makes a pleased noise, speeding up his hand. Well, that answers Dick's question.

"Please," Dick says, pulling up a breathy moan. Roman's next thrust is harsher, deeper, and makes Dick swallow a grunt. "Please, I want to come."

Roman chuckles roughly and his hand leaves Dick's neck, sliding down to the bottom of his shirt and then pushing it up. It bunches awkwardly under him, but it clearly gives Roman what he wants because the man moans, bending down to lick and bite at the revealed skin. It _hurts,_ after the activities of last night, the skin still red and raw and bruised.

"Always so gorgeous like this," Roman says against his skin. He digs his teeth in and Dick's vision whites out for a moment from the pain of it. He shouts, thrashing, but Roman is a solid weight against him, keeping him in place over the pommel.

Roman bites again and again and again, and Dick shakes underneath him, breath hitching with tears and whimpers. He feels wetness against his back and wonders if that's from Roman's mouth or if the skin has split again.

Roman was in a mood last night.

_Dick's almost asleep when Roman comes in._

_He hears him of course—Dick's too light a sleeper to not be aware of whenever the man comes in—but it's late and Dick's tired, so he doesn't let Roman's presence pull on his senses too much. He keeps his eyes closed and continues to drift, curling up under the blankets. He vaguely hears Roman moving around the room, and then silence settles._

_He must fall asleep, because he blinks back awake when he feels someone leaning over him, hands coming down to bracket his head on the pillow._

_"Roman?" Dick mumbles, reaching up to rub at his eyes and squint through the darkness up at the other man. "Wha's goin' on?"_

_Roman doesn't respond immediately, which in and of itself makes Dick a little concerned, bringing him quickly to full alertness. Roman hovers there for another few moments, face shadowed, and then drags the blankets down. Dick, naked underneath them, shivers at the sudden cold._

_"Are you—?"_

_"No talking," Roman murmurs, barely more than a whisper, and Dick closes his mouth, uneasiness rising. "On your stomach, legs over the end of the bed."_

_Watching Roman the entire time for any clues as to what's going on, Dick follows the instruction, sliding down the bed and turning over, hips resting on the edge of the bed. Roman moves around behind him, still saying nothing, and Dick clutches at the bedsheets anxiously._

_The whistle through the air is loud in the otherwise dead silent room, but still Dick is unprepared for the belt whipping down across his back._

_He cries out, more surprised than pained, and begins to whirl around. "Christ, Roman, what—"_

_"Get back into position, sweetheart," Roman says, still so soft, and Dick hesitates, unsure. What is this? What's going on? Usually if Roman's going to do something like this there's build up that tells Dick that it's going to be a rough night, or Roman teases and mocks the entire time, or_ something _that indicates where they stand. But this is just...blank. Dick was already in bed, Roman had been out late for some reason, and now this? Why? Dick just wants to_ understand.

_"Do I need to repeat myself?" A slightly dangerous edge to Roman's voice. Dick shakes his head wordlessly and turns back around, pressing his face to the blanket._

_The strikes start up again._

_By the time Dick's flinching with every one and shouting into the mattress, Roman seems to have relaxed out of whatever had gripped him. Dick can hear him, his breathing that's switching from calm to ragged and back again, the comments he can't seem to stop from falling from his lips, the small groans when he hits Dick particularly hard and Dick_ screams.

_"You look so beautiful all strung out like this," Roman tells him during a brief pause. His arm must be tired. Dick doesn't make any attempts at moving, just shakes where he lays, nails digging into the blanket beneath him._

_"I want you to count now, Richard, understand?"_

_Dick feels dizzy. He wants him to start counting_ now? _After—however long it's been? How much further does Roman plan to take this?_

_"Roman," Dick croaks, tilting his face up, "what's going on?"_

_The other man trails his gloved fingers over Dick's back, and even the lightness of the touch hurts. "What do you mean, sweetheart?"_

_"Why are you...?"_

_Roman chuckles. He sounds so much more relaxed, so much more_ lively, _than when he came in. "Do I need a reason now, Richard? Can I not just do as I please? Is this not my penthouse, are you not lying on my bed, are you not_ mine?"

_Well, there's nothing good Dick can say to that, so he doesn't say anything at all, closing his eyes._

_"Now, I believe I gave you an instruction," Roman continues, voice taking on a mocking edge. "Do you understand?"_

_"...Yes."_

_"Very good," Roman purrs. "Count each one. And I think I'd like you to thank me for them, baby."_

Of course you would, _Dick thinks bitterly. "Okay."_

_There's a moment's silence, and then the belt comes down again. Dick swallows a shout as it once more hits his already injured back. He already aches, and there are spots that almost feel wet—has Roman broken skin? The way he's been going at it, Dick wouldn't be surprised._

_"One. Th-thank you, Roman."_

_"Ah, ah, ah," Roman tuts. "Not quite, sweetheart. Try that again."_

_Dick swallows. "One. Thank you, Daddy."_

"Much _better."_

_Strike. "Two. Thank you, Daddy."_

_Strike. "Thr-three. Thank you, Daddy."_

_By the time they hit fifteen, Dick is sobbing into the blanket, biting back full screams. When Roman starts in on Dick's thighs, he loses count, shouting and writhing, but Roman doesn't chastise him._

_"That's right. Scream for me, baby. My good little slut."_

_Eventually_ (eventually, eventually, eventually—) _Roman tosses the belt aside. He roughly grabs Dick's thighs—fingers digging into the skin that is already bruising—and shoves Dick further up the bed, then wastes no time in lining himself up and shoving in. Dick swallows back cries of pain and forces himself to relax, to just wait for it to be over._

_"So good for me, Richard. Just for me. All mine."_

_Roman comes with a quiet grunt, spilling himself inside of Dick, and then pulls out roughly. Dick winces and slowly pulls himself back up the bed to lie down carefully, on his stomach. He'll have to ask Carson—Roman's private doctor that lives on the floor beneath them—to look at his back tomorrow morning, but for now he closes his eyes and tries to ignore the throbbing, ignore Roman sliding into bed beside him, and just tries to get back to sleep._

With a moan, Roman comes, tongue dragging across the skin of Dick's back. His hand speeds up around Dick's cock and Dick grinds his hips forward to make it go faster, wanting this to end.

When Dick finally comes, the only thing going through his mind is the fact that he's really going to need to reclean these mats.

As is his pattern, Roman pulls away almost immediately, straightening his own clothes and watching as Dick pushes himself up, wincing, trying to put himself back together into some form of human.

"You know," Roman says lightly, "I think I'm beginning to see the appeal of this place." He smirks at Dick, eyes dragging up and down his body. "I'll wait for you at the car," he adds graciously. "Take your time."

Dick watches him go and doesn't move for a while, feeling numb. When he gets himself into motion it's to grab the cleaning supplies, wiping down the mats and the pommel horse and each and every thing Roman so much as _looked_ at. When he's completed that task, he heads back into the staff locker room to shower (again) and change into some fresh clothes.

He's just putting his bag back together when Mara walks in, gaze on her phone as she types rapidly away. He watches her for a moment, amused, as she almost runs into a door. She looks up, startled, and blushes when she spots him.

"Oh, uh, hey," she says awkwardly, looking away. "I totally meant to do that."

"Right," Dick agrees, smiling, and when she looks back down at her phone, he does, too.

His pulse jumps, eyes locking onto the device. He glances around quickly. What if...?

"Hey, Mara?" Dick calls, grabbing her attention. "Could I borrow your phone?"

* * *

Jason crouches on the roof, the lenses in his helmet zooming in on the apartment building across from him as he searches for his target. It's early afternoon, so he doesn't have the cover he would normally have during his preferred time of going out to do his job, but this job has a time table, which means he can't wait for dark.

His comm beeps in his ear, and the line opens. _"Any sign?"_

He sighs. "I've only been here five minutes, gimme a damn moment."

_"Yeah, I know, but—"_

Jason's cellphone buzzes in his jacket pocket, and he flicks his comm to the Emergent Only channel so the watchers-that-be don't keep bothering him, and then patches whoever is calling him into his helmet's system.

"I'm busy, is this important?"

There's a pause, silence on the other end, and then he hears, _"Hey, Jay. Bad time?"_

Jason freezes, back straightening, his eyes wide. "Dick? What the—how are you doing this right now?"

Another pause, one that has every nerve in Jason's body lighting on fire with impatience and fear. Dick's _never_ called them before, never been able to. They only had that one meeting, and then _nothing_ afterwards, not that Jason expected a change, really. He's been working on it, but—

 _"That's a, uh, long-ish story. Not important."_ He sounds tired. Is that strain? Is he injured? Jason can't tell through the shittiness that is Gotham cell service. _"I need you to do something for me, Jase. Um, a couple things, actually."_

Jason's brow furrows, worried. "Okay. What's up?"

He can hear his brother take a deep breath. _"Roy's in Gotham. And Wally, apparently. I, uh, I'm sure they've found you by this point."_

"They have," Jason agrees cautiously.

_"Right. Well, you need to tell them to leave."_

Jason grimaces. "Dickie—"

 _"No, I know what you're going to say, and frankly I...don't have time for your arguments. I just—you need to keep them away. Them and then the others, because where they go—"_ He laughs then, quiet and strangled. _"Well, others follow. And Roy's surprise appearance was seriously enough, okay? It was enough."_

"They just want to help you," Jason says, as gently as he can manage.

 _"I know that!"_ Dick replies, his voice rising. There's a pause, and then much more quietly he continues. _"I know that, Jay. I know you all want to help. But you're—none of you can—"_ He cuts off, a frustrated noise working its way out of him. _"Roy gave away that he knew my secret identity. I made up a reason why he'd know, but Roman isn't stupid. If a crowd of people suddenly start showing up trying to help me, all of them apparently knowing my secret identity, he's going to_ figure out who they are, _do you get that? I can't let that happen."_

Yeah, Jason can understand Dick's concern in that regard, and that's something Jason will have to discuss with the others. Or, really, have _Roy_ discuss with the others. But it's not a good enough reason to just pack up and leave Dick to his own devices, and no way would Roy or anyone else play along. Jason asked, after all, and he was wholeheartedly turned down.

Dick commands loyalty, whether he wants to or not.

"You know your friends, Dick," Jason sighs. "Do you honestly think me telling them to get out is going to change their minds at all?"

The silence from the other end of the phone is an answer in and of itself.

"Are you okay, Dick?" Jason asks, and the question is so insufficient it's almost laughable, but it's all he can offer right now. "Can you—are you free, at the moment? Is that why you're able to call? Do you want to...meet up?"

Dick ignores the question, instead saying, _"There's something else I need you to do."_

Jason sighs. "Big bird-"

 _"This is easier than trying to bully some Titans, I promise,"_ Dick says, and there's a dry note to his voice that has Jason quirking a smile. _"This Friday, Damian has four pieces in an art show at Gotham Academy. I swore to him I'd be there, but-"_ He cuts off, and the slow breath Jason hears him draw in is thick and labored. _"Well, I can't go. So you need to. Or tell Tim and Cass about it. Or...anyone, I guess. He likes Kate and Steph, even if he pretends not to. There just—he needs people there, okay? He needs people there."_

Jason closes his eyes and tilts his head back, taking a slow breath in and out.

"You got it," he says. "He won't be alone."

_"Promise?"_

"I promise."

 _"Good,"_ Dick says, and he sounds relieved. _"Thank you, Jason. I hope you're all doing okay."_

Jason barks out a laugh. "We're just fine, Dickie. Look after yourself right now, okay?" He knows it's pointless; after all, if Dick was only looking after himself, he wouldn't be in this position at all.

 _"Right,"_ Dick says softly. _"I've got to go."_

Jason sucks in a breath; who knows when the next time he'll get to talk to his brother will be? "Dick-"

_"Bye, Jase. Be good."_

The line goes dead with a hollow click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The routine I described that Dick performs in the gym for Roman is based on He Kexin's routine from the Uneven Bars Final at the London 2012 Olympics. It's impressive shit, my dudes.
> 
> Oh by the way I've decided to do a Bad Things Happen Bingo because god do I love writing angst and pain 😉 I've already received a few painful requests, which means I am thriving 😁 You can find my bingo card [here](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/post/612326962221989888/im-doing-bad-things-bingo-everybody-let-me-know)!  
>   
> Hope all y'all are staying safe in these panicky times! Caronavirus is a bitch 💜


	7. Chapter 7

Dick stands still, allowing Roman to adjust his tie with a critical eye. Dick knows he tied it correctly—he's been doing this kind of thing since he first moved in with Bruce, he knows how to make sure his suit is in order—but Roman is a perfectionist and a control freak, especially on nights like these.

The man mutters something under his breath, too mumbled for Dick to make it out, and then releases Dick's tie, sliding his hands quickly over Dick's shoulders once, twice, and then stepping back. He examines him, sharp gaze looking for any flaws, and then nods a little as if in approval.

"Do I pass muster?" Dick can't help but dryly ask. If there's anything about the past hour that is a sign of how focused Roman is, it's the fact that he doesn't respond to the comment, eyes briefly flicking over to meet Dick's with a raised brow, before turning away. He heads back to the dresser, opening his watch box. His fingers slid in the air over the various items before picking one out.

Silver FP Journe, tasteful, effortlessly wealthy. Just like his cufflinks. There's a very specific look Roman is going for tonight, one of class and style while staying far away from gaudy. It's how Roman spends a lot of his life; you can see it in every inch of his penthouse, in all the expensive but subtle cars he drives. But he doesn't usually hyper-focus on it the way he is tonight.

Tonight's important to Roman, that's as clear as day. It's enough to make Dick understand why he wasn't allowed to go to Damian's art show.

That's not to say he's happy about it; no, he doesn't think he'll move past that for a while. But looking at Roman, watching him carefully adjust his watch three times before pulling his sleeves back into place, Dick gets it. Something huge is happening tonight. Which really means Dick has to be on the top of his game, because if he's not, if he messes this up for Roman...

Well, that's going to hurt.

"Alright," Roman says eventually, attention on his cellphone, and begins heading out of the bedroom, "let's go."

Ever the gentleman he pretends to be, Roman puts his phone away and helps Dick into his coat when they reach the elevator. He still looks preoccupied, his mind elsewhere, and Dick keeps silent, stepping into the elevator after Roman's bodyguards. No Lou or Joseph tonight, but that's not unusual; the only times Dick ever sees them is when he's off on his own, and they're there to "protect" him. Roman has countless men on a rotating schedule to guard himself, and the pair of them when together.

The car ride is silent, and Dick takes the opportunity to go through some breathing exercises and release the tension that seems to perpetually cling to his body these days. Just another night of playing a role, not a big deal. He's done this before, even a few times with the people they'll be seeing tonight. It's not a big deal.

Except that it is to Roman, and that makes Dick nervous.

"You're a smart person," Roman says after a little while, when Dick sees they're getting close to their destination, "so I'm going to assume you know how important tonight is, and thus how important your behavior is."

Dick has to resist the urge to roll his eyes; the only times Roman ever compliments him on something not related to his body is when that aspect of himself will aid Roman's wishes. Dick's only ever a _smart person_ when him being so will give Roman what he wants.

"Yes," Dick agrees, dipping his chin in a short nod. "I know how to play this game, Roman."

Roman looks over at him, expression somehow both doubtful and appraising, and nods back shortly. "Good," he says, and then the car is pulling into a large circular driveway in front of a house that can really only be described as a mansion.

One of Roman's bodyguards—something with an _A,_ Dick thinks; _Alex_ maybe?—sitting in the passenger seat gets out and opens the backdoor for them. As Roman is stepping out, the door of the mansion opens, a small group of people coming onto the front steps.

"Roman Sionis!" Carmine Falcone announces with a companionable grin, spreading his arms out like greeting an old friend. Roman smiles back at him, smaller and tighter and far more _polite_ than truly friendly, and offers Dick a hand to help him out of the car.

"Carmine," Roman greets in return, and then, looking to the man standing next to the mobster, says, "Sal. Good to see you both."

Salvatore "Sal" Maroni, more contained than Carmine, inclines his head. "You as well, Roman."

They make their way towards the house, and are stopped by one of the men who exited the house with Falcone and Maroni, obviously a bodyguard. It's clear he has the intention of patting the pair of them down, and Roman raises an eyebrow at Falcone. "Really, Carmine?"

Falcone waves a hand through the air as if to dismiss Roman's concerns. "Come on, Roman, you know it's necessary."

"You're out of your mind if you think I'm stupid enough to walk into this without a weapon on me." Somehow, Roman manages to make the sharp words come off congenial.

"Actually I think you're smart enough to not be packing," Maroni disagrees, butting in. His eyes flick momentarily to Dick, then back. "I think you knew you'd be searched before being allowed in, just like I was, and that your guards would either be instructed to relinquish their weapons or remain outside. But _him,_ on the other hand..."

Roman never released Dick's hand after helping him out of the car, and now his grip tightens, even if his expression doesn't shift at all. "Richard's not much of a fighter," Roman scoffs dismissively.

"No," Maroni agrees, lips quirking in amusement at the very idea. Dick thinks he should probably be offended by that. "But _you_ are, and he doesn't need to be good with a weapon for him to carry it for you." He cocks an eyebrow. "So should we search him, too, or will you agree to the terms that anyone who sits at the table remains unarmed?"

There's a long moment of tense silence, Roman's eyes narrowed in calculation, and then he tilts his head towards Dick and nods sharply in permission, clearly displeased.

Earlier, when getting dressed for this dinner, Roman had extended his hand and offered Dick a gun. Dick had frozen, staring at the weapon, unsure what Roman's purpose was, a small amount of panic rising in him. But Roman hadn't snapped at him for hesitating, simply sighed shortly and said, _"They will search me, and there's no way in hell I'm going in there without a weapon."_

Dick had said, _"And why don't you think they'd catch me instead?"_

With a condescending smirk, Roman's response was, _"Because you're nobody, sweetheart. You think they're searching the latest pretty little thing Maroni has hanging off his arm? No. No one expects people in a position such as yours to ever be carrying, because you're supposed to put your faith in the powerful mobster you've attached yourself to."_ Dick made a face. Roman laughed. _"Take the gun, Richard. And if something goes wrong, all you have to do is hand it to me."_

Looks like _that_ plan is out the window.

Dick reaches behind himself, untucking the back of his dress shirt to reach for the holster nestled in the small of his back. He unhooks the strap and pulls it off, handing it off to Roman and then fixing his shirt to the best of his ability.

Maroni smiles a little, walking down the steps towards them. One of the guards tries to stop him, probably not wanting his boss to approach the mobster with a gun, but Maroni ignores him and extends a hand towards Roman, wordlessly asking for the weapon. After a tense moment, Roman hands it over.

With a practiced motion, Maroni pulls the gun from the holster, looking it over. Dick tries to make himself relax, but it wasn't until this moment that the danger of this situation really sinks in for him; all evening so far he's just been focused on Roman's mood, not the real possibility of this going wrong.

But these things go wrong all the time, Dick's seen it enough times as Nightwing, and as a cop. This could easily turn on Roman if Falcone and Maroni decide to team up, decide they're done with Black Mask taking up so much territory in Gotham. And unlike the other two, Roman doesn't have a family behind him, no heirs that would take over to avenge him, no history as a crime family that would garner that kind of respect.

Roman built everything he has himself. Which is extremely impressive, but it also leaves him so very _alone._

Not a great position to be in, when a man like Maroni has a gun right in front of them. One shot to the head and the False Facers would fall apart, giving Falcone and Maroni some more power back in the Gotham they had before Roman made his mark.

And frankly Dick would be perfectly okay with that, if he didn't know he'd be the victim of the second bullet if they decide to go that route right now.

"The Hellcat," Maroni admires, turning the gun over in his hand. "Excellent for a concealed carry. I'd still go for the Sig P365, though. Do you know what that is?"

Dick can't help himself. He tries, but he can't ignore the condescension, not from Maroni.

"The Sig has the history, sure, but the Hellcat's flush magazine squeezes eleven rounds in the pistol compared to the Sig’s ten, and the extended mag holds one more too. Sure, the trigger break is a little crisper than the P365, but it's barely noticeable. Plus the stippling works better than the Sig's, and the OSP model that supports red dot optics is the same length as their non-OSP model, unlike the P365XL. All of that, _plus_ the Hellcat is slimmer? It's a better gun."

There's a few moments of stunned silence, even Roman looking at him in surprise, before Falcone laughs in delight and says, "Well, Roman! Looks like you've got a hellcat of your own!"

"That I do," Roman agrees absently, still watching Dick like he's never seen him before, and then looks at Maroni with a raised eyebrow. "Well?"

"Ah, yes," Maroni agrees, and offers the gun back. Roman takes it and passes it off to Alex, who tucks the gun into his jacket pocket. "Shall we, then?" he says, gesturing towards the house.

As they walk, Dick can feel Roman's eyes on him. "I thought the Bat hated guns," Roman says, pleasure in each syllable, low enough that it's just for Dick's ears.

Dick's eyes cut around anyway, looking for listening ears, and then murmurs back, "He does. That doesn't mean he didn't teach us how to use them. Plus, I was a cop, remember?"

Roman hums. "I remember. I suppose I never considered the implications." His lips curve up into a brief smirk. "I'll have to take you shooting, see if you can actually _apply_ any of that knowledge."

The words clench tight in Dick's gut, and he says nothing in reply.

They're led to a sitting room, one that makes Dick think of Wayne Manor, where a handful of other people are waiting. Dick recognizes Louisa and Mario Falcone, Carmine's wife and son, and Nicola Maroni, Salvatore's eldest son. Over by a crackling fireplace are two young boys, easily identifiable as Maroni's twin sons Umberto and Pino. Sitting near them is a girl Dick doesn't recognize, but going by her proximity to the Maroni kids and her age of maybe mid-twenties, Dick would say this is the latest girl Salvatore is seeing.

Ever since his wife's passing five years ago, Maroni's had countless companions. Not that that's to say he didn't have countless companions _before_ his wife's death as well, of course.

"Richard," Louisa greets with a kind smile, coming over to give him a hug. They've met a few times since his return to Roman's side, and despite who she married, Dick rather likes her. She's tough as nails and also one of the nicest people Dick's met, and she's always been nice to him, treating him like a person as opposed to Black Mask's toy like some of these guys can act.

"Mrs. Falcone," Richard says, returning her hug. "You look as beautiful as ever, far too good for this crowd."

Louisa laughs, delighted, and smacks him playfully on the shoulder. "For shame. And when are you going to start calling me Louisa?" The girl approaches then, and Louisa turns slightly to welcome her into the conversation. "Oh, have you met Ariana? She's been seeing Sal for a few weeks now."

"Nice to meet you," the girl—Ariana—says, smiling politely. She's beautiful, with porcelain features and bright green eyes, and a dress styled to show off his curves. Dick can see why Maroni picked her up.

Dick can only hope this ends better for her than it has for many of the others Maroni's gotten tired off. By the look in Louisa's eyes, she's hoping the same thing.

"You too," Dick says, smiling charmingly back at her. "I love your necklace, by the way."

Ariana's hand reaches up to touch the large stone in the hollow of her neck, and she blushes slightly. "Oh, thank you! Sal just bought it for me, asked me to wear it tonight. Isn't it lovely?"

Roman's not the only one with a chosen style for the night, it seems. Dick's not even slightly surprised.

"Hogging all of his time, Louisa?" someone drawls, sidling over to the three of them. Ariana doesn't look bothered by the intrusion, but Dick and Louisa share a long-suffering look.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Louisa says, the dry quality of her voice going unnoticed by the others.

"Hello, Richard," Nicola greets, smiling at him and stepping closer. "It's good to see you again."

Dick absolutely does not like Nicola Maroni. The man is charming, good-looking, intelligent, and clever, and so really he should be a pretty great guy if you put aside the whole heir-to-a-major-crime-family thing. And maybe if Nicola hadn't set his sights on Dick, they would get along just fine whenever they had to interact. As it stands, however, Nicola is interested, and has made his interest known.

If he gets any more forward than he has in the past, Roman is actually going to hurt the man, and that would be very bad for business. And bad for Dick.

"Nicola," Dick greets, and suddenly Roman's at his side again, a possessive arm snaking around his waist, fast enough that Dick almost wants to laugh.

"I believe it's time for dinner," Roman says by way of explanation, offering Nicola a sharp smile. "This way, sweetheart." Roman uses his grip to steer Dick out of the sitting room, following Falcone and Louisa to a lavish dining room.

"Your possessiveness is showing," Dick says wryly, smirking slightly at Roman.

Roman's eyes are dark when he looks back at him. _"Good."_ Then the man pulls out a chair for Dick, smiling with too many teeth, and if this entire situation wasn't so horrific Dick would be tempted to roll his eyes.

The dinner, really, is barely any different than the countless ones Dick's attended with Bruce and his high society "friends." A whole other world, and yet the exact same flow of conversation, same meaningless words, same barely-concealed barbs, same congenial exchanging of anecdotes. Dick's role here is almost exactly the same as it would be if he was sitting next to Roman in a ballroom for a gala instead of at Carmine Falcone's dining room table.

"It's a shame Sofia couldn't join us tonight," Maroni comments about an hour into the dinner, when everyone's relaxed quite a bit.

Falcone snorts. "My daughter," he says, "has the brains and ambition to take over from me one day, if she would only drop that _boy_ she spends all her time with." His lips are curled with distaste.

Roman chuckles. "Not a fan?" His arm is resting along the back of Dick's chair, his fingers absently playing with the short hair at the nape of Dick's neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick can see Nicola's gaze locked on the point of contact.

Falcone grunts, and next to him Louisa hides a smile behind her glass. "He's a waste of space if you ask me. And I regret voicing that opinion to her, because by this point she would've tossed him aside if it weren't for me telling her I don't like him."

Dick laughs. "Teenagers."

"Oh, Richard, you have a brother about Sofia's age, don't you?" Louisa asks curiously.

It's oddly startling, to hear someone from this world talk about his brother. Because it's...unless it's their vigilante personas being discussed, the Waynes don't belong in a room with people like this. _Tim_ shouldn't be mentioned by the Falcones, because that's dangerous. The heads of mafias taking note of people never means good things.

Dick just has to remind himself that they know him, now, which means his family is on their radar. They don't mean any harm. Louisa is just involving him in the conversation, engaging him on a semi-shared subject. It's not a threat.

So he nods, smiling. "Yes. Tim turned nineteen a few months ago. Smart as a whip."

"Isn't he running Wayne Enterprises?" Maroni asks. "Damn impressive."

"He is," Dick agrees.

"I bet Wayne's glad the kid came along," Falcone snorts, taking a sip from his tumbler. "It wasn't like _he_ was providing any brain power."

"Carmine," Louisa chastises, frowning. Her eyes cut briefly over to Dick with concern.

"It's okay," Dick soothes immediately. This is what Bruce goes for, what he wants people to see when they look at him. Just because he—and Roman now—knows differently, doesn't mean the rest of the room should, or he should get offended by them simply believing what Bruce wants them too. If anything, he should be pleased! "Bruce is...not geared towards business." There are a couple snorts, which Dick politely ignores. "Tim's doing an excellent job, though."

Working himself to the bone and taking on far more than a nineteen-year-old should have to, sure, but still doing an excellent job.

"I bet he is," Mario Falcone agrees supportively, catching Dick slightly by surprise, and he inclines his head in thanks.

"Oh! Ariana, Richard, I wanted to give you both a tour," Louisa says, clasping her hands together. "Honestly this house is so big, it feels like a museum sometimes; would you like to see?"

Roman gives a brief squeeze to the back of Dick's neck before releasing, and so Dick nods; seems it's time for the big boys to talk business. "I'd love to!"

"Me too," Ariana agrees, smiling, and kisses Maroni on the cheek before getting to her feet. "This place really is beautiful."

Dick accepts the kiss Roman presses to his jaw, and his lips quirk when he hears Roman murmur, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you to be on your guard."

"I'll see you soon," Dick says, smiling a little in amusement, and gets up from the table, following after Louisa.

* * *

"I like that boy," Carmine says after a few moments of silence, staring thoughtfully down the hallway the three people just left through.

Roman cocks an eyebrow, swirling his drink. "Oh?"

Salvatore snorts. "Relax, Roman, he's not making any moves. But I have to agree; him laying into me about the Hellcat?" Sal makes a face, and it's certainly not an upset one. "Damn. Didn't think pretty boy Dickie Wayne had that in him."

Roman hums, nodding. "He was a cop," he supplies, and smirks. "Bludhaven certainly trains them well."

"Bludhaven, Christ," Mario says incredulously, shaking his head. "No wonder he ended up with you—everyone's dirty there."

Roman barks out a laugh before he can stop himself, and then tries to tame it into a chuckle when they all look at him in surprise. "Apologies, it's just, no, Richard wasn't a dirty cop. In fact he was probably one of maybe five good ones that existed over there, if my informants are to be believed."

Salvatore raises his eyebrows. "How's it that a good cop in a den of awful ones ends up living with _Black Mask_ then? Why'd you pick him?"

"Other than the fact that he's a gorgeous gymnast?" Roman offers dryly, and receives a chorus of light chuckles in response. He shrugs a shoulder carelessly. "I don't know, Sal; there's a certain amount of pleasure in tarnishing and breaking something that _good."_

"Are you, then?" Nicola cuts in, tone offhand. _"Breaking_ him, that is?"

Roman gives him a smirk, eyes dark, saying nothing.

"Word of advice? Before we get to business?" Carmine says, giving Roman a serious look.

Roman cocks his head. "Alright, go ahead."

"That boy has a head on his shoulders," Carmine warns. "A sharp one, sharper than he lets on. And you're not stupid, hell I wouldn't be surprised if you're smarter than me, the way you've been rising. But don't let your ego get in the way here—you want to treat the kid like a chew toy, that's your prerogative. He's certainly a pretty plaything. But if it were _me_ with him at my beck and call?"

Carmine leans back in his chair, shrugging lightly. "Well, I'd utilize that mind of his. Who knows what he could do for you if pointed in the right direction?"

* * *

"I'm sorry about that comment about your father," Louisa apologizes, linking her arm with Dick's, looped with Ariana on her other side. "Carmine has strong opinions."

Dick chuckles, shaking his head. "Honestly, I meant it when I said it was fine, Mrs. Falcone."

"Richard, sweetheart—" Dick twitches at the term coming from someone other than Roman, "—how many times am I going to have to tell you to call me by my first name?"

"Probably for all of eternity," he teases on instinct. Talking with her doesn't make him think of his mom, but it does make him think of _a_ mom, and that's a little comforting. He glances over at Ariana, pulling on a conspirator's smile. "Don't let her talk you into calling her _Louisa,"_ he advises sagely, and she giggles, tucking her hair behind her ear. "This right here is a matriarch, and deserves the respect."

Louisa shakes her head, but she's smiling as she continues on leading the tour, so that's all Dick can really hope for.

"This," Louisa announces after a little while of exploring, throwing open a pair of double doors, "is the sun room."

With two full walls made up of glass and facing east, Dick understands why they call the room that. It's slightly dark out at the moment, but you can still see how the room gives you a view of the fields out past Gotham; Dick thinks he can even see Wayne Manor, in the distance. The other two walls are painted a deep navy but with gold bursts like stars sprinkled in. The three couches are plush and extremely comfortable looking, and there's a large bookcase filling up about half of one of the walls, with a desk nearby. The electric lights glow with soft orange light.

"Sofia and I designed it together when she was ten," Louisa says, smiling. "There's about half an hour in the morning when you get blasted by the sun, but the tree line covers the worst of it, leaving this place bathed in light for most of the day."

Dick smiles back at her. "It's lovely."

"I'm glad you think so, because this is where we leave you."

Dick blinks. "Pardon?"

Louisa offers him a sympathetic smile. "Richard, darling, you need a breather." Dick opens his mouth to protest, but the woman holds up a hand. "You play the game well, but I know people. This isn't your world, not at the end of the day, and I think you spend enough time around people trying to make all _this_ your business. So take the opportunity, Richard. Take off your shoes, pick a book, and hang out for a bit."

Dick hesitates, unsure. "Are you...?"

"It's a _very_ big house, and we'll be moving slowly," Louisa tells him. "When Ariana and I finish the tour, we'll swing by here again and pick you up before heading back to the dining room. Okay?"

After another moment of hesitation, Dick nods. It does sound nice; just enjoying this place without having to do anything or be anyone in particular. It has a definite appeal, and the star designs on the walls remind him of the inside of Haly's main tent.

"Okay," he agrees. "Thank you, Louisa."

Louisa grins at him, victorious, and then nods primly and turns on her heels, pulling Ariana along with her. The door shuts with a definitive click.

Dick takes a moment to enjoy the silence, the settled feeling of being blissfully alone, and then strolls over to the bookcase.

He reads right to left, shelf by shelf, looking at all the titles the heiress of a criminal empire has chosen for the sun room she created with her mother. It's certainly an eclectic collection, everything from Poe to Austen to Riordan to Dr. Seuss. Dick can't help but grab the copy of _The Lightning Thief,_ a book he absolutely adored when he was younger, and there's something deeply pleasing about the fact that the binding is worn from clearly having been read many times.

He hears the door open and turns around, confused, then tenses when he sees Nicola. The other man looks perfectly relaxed, hands tucked into his pockets, his gait unhurried as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.

Dick automatically tracks the distance between them, the distance between each of them and the door, and the number of heavy objects in his immediate vicinity that could be used as weapons if needed.

Of course, that's a _Plan Z_ kind of scenario, because attacking Sal Maroni's eldest son is absolutely _not_ what Roman meant when he told Dick how important his behavior tonight would be.

"Nicola," Dick greets cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

"There are some things that do not include Mario nor I," Nicola tells him, seemingly unbothered. "Our fathers and your Roman needed to discuss something in private, and so here I am, passing the time."

 _Your Roman._ Wow, that's such an odd thing to hear. No one's ever put it like that, and it almost makes Dick want to laugh. Roman isn't _his,_ that's not how this works between them. Roman doesn't belong to him. It's the other way around.

"So you came...here?" Dick asks.

Nicola hums, nodding, and strolls further into the room. He's making a lazy circle through the room, but his destination is clearly Dick. And Dick can't back away, because showing weakness to people like this is absolutely not an option.

"I was curious about something," Nicola says.

"Oh?"

"It was that night at the Tavern, wasn't it?" Nicola asks, and Dick blinks in surprise. "When you and Roman became _you and Roman."_

Dick thinks back to that night, going semi-undercover with Jason, distracting everyone so his brother could slip in and out unnoticed. And then the run-in with Roman in the bathroom that sent Dick's entire life off course.

Nicola was there that night. They danced together, even. Right before Dick excused himself to use the restroom, Dick was sandwiched between Nicola Maroni, a girl Dick doesn't know the name of, and the Yakuza head's daughter, Sara. Sara had kissed his cheek and Nicola had whispered _Hurry back_ and then Dick had been blocked in by Roman.

"Yes," Dick confirms, because that's the simplest answer in this weird game that is his life right now. "Why?"

Nicola doesn't say anything for a moment, frowning thoughtfully at the floor as he approaches. Dick stands his ground, his knuckles white from how tightly he's gripping the book in his hand.

"You looked incredible that night," Nicola muses, and looks up at him. He's close now, just a few feet away. Dick's jaw clenches. "Like an angel, sent down to torment all us sinners with how out of reach you were all night."

"I'm not an angel, Nicola," Dick says shortly.

"No," Nicola agrees, voice soft. "But you are _good."_ He finally comes to a stop directly in front of Dick. He's close enough now that Dick can see the shades of brown in his eyes, the faint scar that cuts through one of his eyebrows, the birthmark that sits right before his ear.

"What is this about?" Dick asks. He knows what this is about, Nicola's _interest_ always clear as day. But he's not stupid enough to _try_ anything, is he? Not with Black Mask's...whatever Dick is in all of their eyes. Nicola knows where they stand. He wouldn't _dare._

Would he?

"We were close, that night," Nicola murmurs, and Dick withholds a snort; he was playing a _role,_ and Nicola's behavior just proves he played it well. "Would it have been me, do you think? If Sionis had not captured your attention, if you were looking to go home with someone—would it have been me?"

"Nicola," Dick sighs. "Stop."

"That isn't an answer," Nicola says firmly, and then steps forward, like Dick's avoidance of answering has emboldened him. He reaches out, hand going towards Dick's cheek, and Dick catches his wrist in a tight grip.

"You're going to want to rethink this," Dick warns. "Step back before you do something we all regret."

"Do you know how he talks about you?" Nicola demands, face twisting with anger. "Like you are a _thing_ he picked up, something to play with and _break."_

Well, certainly not flattering, but not in the slightest bit surprising. That _is_ what he is, after all. To Roman. Certainly not worth the fuss Nicola is making about it.

"Nicola—"

"He doesn't love you!" Nicola shouts.

And Dick—

Dick can control himself pretty well. But in this moment, after _that_ statement? He can't stop himself from bursting into laughter.

Nicola jerks back, startled, as Dick doubles over cackling. His stomach is cramping and tears are leaking from his eyes, because holy _shit_ is that funny. Roman? Love him? Jesus fucking _Christ_ of course not. What does Nicola think this is, some Hollywood blockbuster? Where the innocent civilian gets swept up by the big bad criminal and tries to excuse away their crimes when they're eventually caught, usually with begging and tears?

No, Dick isn't a damsel and Roman isn't a hero and Nicola _certainly_ isn't a knight in shining armor.

Love him. Christ, what a fairytale. As if he would. As if Dick would even _want_ him to, because if this is how he treats the people he loves...Well, Dick doesn't think he could handle being loved like that.

"What is wrong with you?" Nicola asks, somehow managing to sound both angry and worried.

Dick makes an effort to straighten back up, to contain his laughter. He can't stop the smile though, shaking his head ruefully. "Nicola. Oh, dear Nicola. You are...your concern is—well, it's probably touching. But I don't need your protection. I _know_ Roman doesn't love me. If it makes you feel any better, I don't love him either."

Nicola blinks at him, looking startled and unsure, and then suddenly resolve sinks into his expression and he's leaning forward and before Dick can stop him he's _kissing him._

For a few moments, Dick is actually stunned still. Because this is—it's a _kiss,_ passionate but not forceful, Nicola's hand gentle when it reaches up to cup Dick's neck, his fingernails scraping lightly over the nape of Dick's neck. It's nothing like what Roman does, nothing like the signs of _possession_ any time Roman's lips are on his.

Dick hasn't simply been kissed in a while. It's enough to freeze him, for a few moments.

And then his brain catches up with him, and he jolts, eyes going wide. He brings his knee up, hitting Nicola in the groin, and backs away as the other man shouts in pain, hunching over.

"Fuck," Dick breathes. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck."_

This is so not good. This is so far past _Not Good,_ actually, that there isn't even a word for it invented yet. This is the situation in which such a term would be created, everything else in the world that happens held to the standard of if it's as bad as This is.

"He's going to kill you," Dick says, voice strangled. He slides his hands into his hair, fingers clenching in the strands. "Fuck, he's really going to kill you. You get I have to tell him, right? Christ, you're gonna die."

"You just agreed he doesn't love you," Nicola wheezes, doing his best to stand up straight again. "You really think he would kill me and start a full-blown gang war over someone who to him is just an _object?"_

Dick looks at him incredulously, wondering how someone so moronic has ended up the heir to quite a large mafia.

"I'm sorry, have you _met_ Roman Sionis? The literal most possessive bastard to ever _exist?_ He once threatened to kill my friend on the _off-chance_ that he and I _maybe once_ fucked when we were _kids!_ Do you see how messed up that logic is? You're right, to Roman, I am a _thing,_ but I am a thing that _belongs to him._ I am _his,_ you gigantic ignoramus! And Roman will quite happily burn the world to the ground if someone messes with _his things."_

Dick rubs at his temples. "Fuck, this is gonna hit me too. And my back _just_ started really healing. Dammit."

"You don't have to tell him," Nicola protests. "If the outcome to you telling him is I get killed and you get—" he cuts off, looking pained, _"—hurt,_ then what's the point in telling? Only you and I know."

Dick laughs, slightly tinged with hysteria. He's been at Roman's side too long to think that will work. And the longer he keeps this from Roman, the worse the punishment will be when it comes out. He _has_ to tell Roman. He just—he has to. He _has to._

"Maybe he won't kill you," Dick offers with false optimism. "You're Sal Maroni's eldest son, after all, and this partnership is really important to Roman. So yeah, okay, maybe he won't kill you. He...he'll probably hurt you, a bit, or make some kind of deal with Maroni but—well, you won't be dead. So. That's a win, right? I feel like that's a win."

Dick knows he's rambling. He can't help it; he works hard to not do things that will make Roman angry with him, to not be in positions where he has to be punished. But this is the second time in only a week that _someone else's actions_ are going to be the reason he gets hurt. And how is that fair? He can't control what the rest of the world does. How is it fair to take it out on him?

Nothing about this is fair, that's how. Nothing about Roman will ever be fair.

"You're afraid of him," Nicola observes quietly.

Dick stares at him, incredulous. "You're just getting that _now?"_

The door swings open suddenly, and Dick has a moment where he feels like he actually leaves his body, where the anxiety gets too high at the idea that Roman is going to walk in that he doesn't physically feel grounded anymore, like he's a voyeur to his own life. But it's only Louisa, who must be returning to grab him.

Still not good, but so much better than Roman.

Louisa tenses as she spots Nicola, and she looks the pair of them over critically, jaw setting, eyes hard. Dick wonders what she must see, how frazzled Dick looks, the desperate sadness on Nicola's face.

"Richard," she calls firmly, "why don't you come with me?"

Dick nods, unable to speak, and stumbles towards the door, trying so very hard to keep his breathing even.

"Dick," Nicola says as he passes by, and Dick jerks to a stop despite himself, so unused to hearing his preferred name. "You do not need to say anything. I will remain quiet; you have my word."

Dick just shakes his head wordlessly and rushes towards Louisa, hurrying out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you wanna feel super poor, look up how much FP Journe watches go for. Cuz uh, _wow._
> 
> I got the information on the Springfield Armory Hellcat [here](https://clingerholsters.com/50-best-concealed-carry-guns/), and all of the Maroni and Falcone family members I mentioned exist in the comics, except for Nicola.
> 
> Let me know your thoughts! I'm trapped at home with barely anything to do but scroll through the internet, and comments always spark joy ;)


	8. Chapter 8

Louisa is finishing up showing Ariana the ballroom when she spots Mario down the hall, wandering in the direction of the staircase.

She frowns; shouldn't he still be at dinner? Carmine told her that he would be including Mario more in the dealings, start really training him; Sofia might be the clear heir, might be the one of her children most clearly suited for leading the Falcone family after Carmine, but that doesn't mean Mario is going to sit it out entirely. He's a Falcone, and he will do what his family needs.

It's enough that Alberto has practically removed himself from them; she won't let two of her children slide away.

"Mario," she calls out, and he turns, heading over to them. "Why aren't you with your father?"

Her son cracks a wry smile. "Ma, are you really surprised? My name isn't Sofia, and that means my opinions on more serious matters don't matter. At least I'm not the only one, though; Sal had Nicola leave, too. Whatever Dad is talking about while I'm not there, you'll have to ask him."

Hm, maybe Carmine has wised up to the fact that Mario tells her everything, even the things her husband would rather keep hidden. That's...unfortunate.

Wait—

"Where's Nicola, then?" she asks, glancing behind Mario like the other young man would suddenly appear.

Mario shrugs a shoulder. "He's been here before; I didn't need to fake a tour. He's just exploring, I think. I saw him heading down the East Wing."

Louisa swats her son upside the head. "Have you learned nothing? You're just letting him _wander around?_ Your generation, I swear..." She shakes her head. "Go on, go away, I'll find him."

"Sorry," Mario mutters like a chagrined child. Louisa is really going to have to talk to Carmine about this; Mario—nor Nicola, really, though he's not her problem—doesn't seem to have the instincts they should have by this point, growing up in their world. Where is her suspicion, Carmine's cleverness? Between Mario's inattention and Alberto's gentleness, Sofia truly is the only option.

Wait, the East Wing.

The Sun Room is in the East Wing.

 _"Merda,"_ Louisa curses. She takes a deep breath, and pulls on something of a pleasant smile for Ariana, turning to the younger woman. "Ariana, dear, why don't you head back to the sitting room to see how Umberto and Pino are faring? I'm sure they've grown bored of the nanny's games and wouldn't mind a familiar face."

Ariana seems to catch on to her urgency even if she doesn't understand it, and nods, heading off down the hall back towards where Sal's twin boys are. Louisa heads in the opposite direction, walking quickly towards the Sun Room.

Louisa pushes the door open, prepared to request Richard leave the room earlier than expected, and then tenses when she sees Nicola.

It's immediately clear that something's happened; Richard's eyes are a little too wide, his body stiff and in a slightly defensive position, and looks somewhat _panicked_ by the door opening. Nicola, by contrast, has an almost desperate look on his face, beseeching, watching Richard like the younger man is ripping him to pieces. He's holding himself oddly as well, legs a bit too wide.

"Richard," Louisa says firmly, "why don't you come with me?"

The young man nods quickly and heads towards the door. He's shaking slightly, and it makes every protective instinct in Louisa's body rear their head.

"Dick," Nicola calls just as Richard is passing him, and Richard jerks to a stop, gaze on the wall, hands balled into fists at his sides. "You do not need to say anything. I will remain quiet; you have my word."

But Richard just shakes his head and continues on towards Louisa, rushing out the door, which Louisa closes behind him.

"I—" Richard starts, but Louisa shakes her head and grabs ahold of his wrist and he cuts off, pliantly allowing her to drag him down the hallway and then into the first bathroom they come across. Louisa locks the door behind them and then turns to look at the young man, raising an expectant eyebrow.

"Well?" she says. "Let it out."

Richard blinks at her, all large blue eyes and golden skin and full lips _(Christ_ he's pretty, the kind of pretty that makes Louisa want to wrap a blanket around his shoulders and help him hide from the world for a little while), and hoarsely asks, "What?"

"You can't go back to Roman the way you are right now," she tells him. "He'd eat you alive. We are far enough from the dining room that there's no way any of them will hear you; so, let it out."

Richard swallows, his eyes flicking over her like he's trying to decide if this is going to blow up in his face somehow. Louisa waits patiently, and she sees the moment he accepts it, the moment he decides he can have these few minutes to let himself bleed.

And then Richard _screams._

His knees bend under the force of it, his arms curling to his chest, eyes squeezing shut. It's an open wound, that sound. Filled with pain and loss and desperation, and Louisa feels tears prick her eyes in response.

Richard straightens with violent energy, a sob breaking the scream into pieces, and he punches the wall, an aimless but still powerful hit. The plaster splits, and Louisa makes a mental note to come up with an explanation for that to tell Carmine later; Mario would probably take the blame for her, really. Especially if he's feeling guilty enough.

There are words in Richard's pain, hoarse and screamed and sobbed, but Louisa can only make out half of them; the other half seem to be in another language, though for the life of her she can't tell what language it is.

This is so much worse than she imagined. The poor boy.

Eventually, the bleeding slows, turning sluggish. Richard bends over the sink, hands clasped on the back of his neck, forehead pressed to the countertop. His breathing is beginning to even out, his body relaxing out of the perpetual tenseness.

He stands after another minute and rolls his shoulders, then his neck, then cracks his back. He turns on the sink and splashes some water on his face, then grabs a hand towel to dry himself off. He pauses then, hands clenched on the edge of the countertop, eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

"Would you like to tell me what Nicola meant when he said that he'll _remain quiet?"_ Louisa asks levelly.

Richard's eyes open and slide over to meet hers in the reflection of the mirror. He looks very tired, but not close to snapping like he did before she dragged him into the bathroom.

"He kissed me," Richard says dully, shaking his head a little.

Oh, that _idiot._

 _"Merda,"_ she mutters, and Richard cracks a smile, turning around to face her. He rolls his neck again, leaning back against the counter, and then glances down at the hand he used to punch the wall; the knuckles are a little red, but that'll fade quickly—the plaster wasn't nearly thick enough to cause any bruising.

"Yeah," Richard agrees. "He—" He huffs a laugh, though it isn't really a happy sound. "He said...he tried to tell me that Roman doesn't love me. That I'm just an object to him. Like these aren't things I already know. Like that's not _obvious."_

Louisa sighs.

When she first met Richard, she was taken aback. Because the way he and Roman acted around each other felt—at first—so very _real._ It had surprised her, because Roman Sionis is most certainly not a caring man. He wasn't built for a healthy relationship. So the introduction of Richard, who seemed to fit in so easily with his beautiful smile and clever wit, who Roman always had part of his focus on like he was enraptured, certainly surprised them all.

For a little while—for a _very_ little while—Louisa actually liked Roman more than she had before. The man has always been far too intelligent and ruthless for her to be comfortable with, but if he actually cared for someone? Well, that humanized him a little. Made him feel like less of a demon, more like a man.

Both Roman and Richard were extremely good actors. They played their roles expertly. But Louisa has been the wife of a mobster for going on forty years now, and she's no ignorant, delicate flower. It only took a small amount of time to see the infinitesimal cracks in their perfect exterior, the cracks that spoke of fear and possession and nothing close to _love._

She doesn't know how Richard got himself wrapped up in Black Mask, but the boy's stuck now, and he's smart enough to know that he should be afraid of what that means. Of what Roman is. And, more than likely, he's seen it firsthand.

"Are you going to tell Roman?" Louisa asks.

Richard looks over at her, something terribly, tiredly _sad_ in his eyes, and says, "I _have_ to. I—I _have_ to, you get why, right? I-I have to tell him what happened."

Louisa understands why. Roman is...possessive, and already doesn't like Nicola. If he learns much later that Nicola kissed Richard, and that Richard didn't tell him—people have killed for less. _Roman_ has killed for less. Louisa doesn't know the intricacies of their relationship, doesn't quite know what goes on behind closed doors, but she can imagine it's nothing good. Roman doesn't seem the type to think himself better than domestic abuse.

"I understand," Louisa agrees, because it seems like Richard needs validation at the moment. "And I assume you're struggling with it because of the consequences that will hit Nicola?"

Not that the idiot doesn't deserve it. Honestly, kissing Black Mask's boyfriend; of all the stupid, _moronic_ things to do. Sal needs to get his son in line, or he's going to find himself with a dead eldest.

Before the night's up he might find himself with one anyway, if Roman decides to act.

Richard nods. "It's...Roman already hates Nicola, 'cause it's not like Nicola has been...subtle. He—" Richard cuts off, clearing his throat. "More than likely, this'll make Roman kill Nicola. And I...I don't want to be responsible for someone's death."

No, Richard does not belong in this world.

"Think of yourself," Louisa tells him firmly. "You need to protect _yourself,_ do you understand? It's not your job to save the rest of the world."

Richard smiles wryly. "I've never been good at leaving it at that. If I can help..."

"You can't," Louisa says. "You can't help Nicola; that boy made a decision, one he knew was dangerous, one he knew would have consequences at some point. It is _not your job_ to save everyone, Richard. Right now you can barely save yourself."

The look in Richard's eyes is terribly vulnerable, and he breaks eye contact, staring at the ground. "I just want to keep them safe," he says hoarsely. "I just want..."

Louisa doesn't know who he's talking about now, but it isn't Nicola.

"You are strong," she tells him, because it's true, and she has no better words of comfort. Not for something like this. "You have so much strength, Richard. Use it, _feel_ it, wrap it around yourself. You have armor built into your bones, Richard Grayson; don't let him strip it from you."

"Easier said than done," Richard mutters.

"Yes," Louisa agrees. "Important things often are."

She gives him thirty more seconds to breathe, and then unlocks the door. "Come on; we'll be expected back soon."

Richard nods. He turns back to face the mirror and straightens himself out, combing his fingers through his hair to put it back into place, adjusting his tie, fixing the tuck of his shirt into his pants, until he's perfectly presentable, nothing out of the ordinary.

"Alright," he agrees, "let's go."

She keeps an eye on him as they walk back towards the dining room, watching as a fake skin settles back over him like it never left. There is the charming boy she first met, with an easy smile and unbothered eyes, steps unhurried and body relaxed, like he has all the time in the world and not a single care.

Yes, certainly an excellent actor.

* * *

When they reenter the dining room, Roman, Falcone, and Maroni are all chuckling over something, looking quite companionable. Dick knows Roman's tells pretty well by this point, and the man looks simply relaxed and amenable but Dick can see how pleased he is; the discussion must've gone well.

"Louisa," Falcone calls out, the first to notice them, smiling at his wife. "Richard. How'd you like the tour?"

"Your house is amazing," Dick replies. "The library and the Sun Room in particular are beautiful."

Falcone seems pleased, as all egotistical men get when complimented, even in such a roundabout way. "Well, it's no Wayne Manor, I'm sure, but this place certainly has it's bright spots."

Dick ducks his head demurely, unable to think of a perfect response to that at the moment, and goes over to Roman. He perches on the arm of the man's chair, leaning into the hand that slides across the small of his back to his hip. He can feel Roman glance up at him, sharp and observant, and keeps himself relaxed.

"Where's Ariana?" Maroni asks, though he doesn't sound overly concerned.

"She went to go check on Umberto and Pino," Louisa says, leaning her hip against the table. Maroni just nods, accepting it.

"It's getting late," Roman says. "And traffic from here is dreadful on a Friday night."

"Of course," Falcone agrees, and gets to his feet, followed soon by Maroni, and Dick steps away so Roman can stand.

"I'm gonna grab my boys and do the same," Maroni says, and then steps around the table towards Roman. "Good seeing you Roman," he says, offering his hand, and Roman shakes it. "I expect we'll get an update soon?"

Roman nods, lips curving. Maroni smiles, offers Dick a polite goodbye, and then heads off down the hall back towards the sitting room he left his twin sons in.

"Come on," Louisa says with a smile, "I'll walk you to the door."

Roman and Falcone shake hands and share a heavy look before pulling away from each other. Falcone smiles slightly at Dick.

"It was good to see you again, Richard," he says. "You should come by more often; you're pleasant company, and your presence tends to make Roman a bit more agreeable." He winks.

Roman snorts, shaking his head, and turns for the door.

"Bye," Dick says to Falcone, smiling slightly, and then accepts the goodbye hug Louisa offers him when they reach the door. He avoids her gaze, though; he can't risk any meaningful glance from her, not when he's already steeling himself.

Roman's men are still right where they left them, and Alex opens the backdoor for them, shutting it after they've slid inside, and soon the car takes off, heading back into Gotham proper.

The breakdown in the bathroom was everything Dick hadn't known he needed. It all came rushing out of him, all the pain and anger and fear and desperation that he's had to keep tightly locked inside of him. It felt so good to purge that a little, to have just a few minutes of outlet. The feelings are still there, but he feels less like a corked bottle now, feels a little more in control of himself.

Then again, he has to tell Roman about Nicola, which is...certainly anxiety producing.

How should he go about this? How does he broach this subject? _Oh, hey Roman, by the way, Sal Maroni's son kissed me and seemed to really want more before I stopped it. Thoughts?_ He almost laughs at that. Well, it sure is one way to go about this.

"What's wrong with you?"

Dick startles, looking over to Roman, heart lurching. "What?"

Roman narrows his eyes. Not angry, it doesn't look like, just watchful and a little suspicious. "You're coiled like a spring, Richard. Something is clearly wrong. So what is it?"

"I need to tell you something," Dick says, and then doesn't continue. Roman cocks an eyebrow.

"And?" he prompts, irritation starting to creep in.

"And I'm worried you're going to hurt me for it even though it's not my fault and I didn't do anything wrong," Dick says in a moment of startling honestly.

Roman seems surprised by the fact that he said it too, and turns a bit more towards him. "Why would I hurt you for something that isn't your fault?" Roman asks, and if he was anyone else Dick would buy the innocent confusion in his voice, but from Roman it's utterly _laughable._

Dick gives him a look, and Roman smirks in response.

"Alright," Roman says. "But clearly you're more afraid of what might happen if you _don't_ tell me, so why don't you just spit it out, and _I_ will decide what happens to you next?"

Dick bites his lip and his gaze darts away, unable to hold eye contact when he says, "Nicola kissed me."

The air seems to get sucked out of the car.

"I stopped it _immediately,"_ Dick rushes to continue, looking back to Roman. The man is perfectly still, eyes hard. "He kissed me, and I kneed him in the crotch and then I _left,_ okay. I didn't kiss back, I didn't want him to do it, I—"

"Be quiet."

Dick closes his mouth, hands clenching on his knees.

The car remains perfectly silent for three-hundred-and-twenty-four seconds (Dick keeps track) before Roman sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head a little.

"Can he just keep it in his pants," Roman mutters, "for _five minutes?"_

Dick blinks, and keeps his mouth shut. So far there's no possessive anger being directed at him, and he'd like to keep it that way for as long as he can.

"What did he think was going to happen?" Roman scoffs, tilting his head back. "I mean, who the fuck does he think he is?" He looks at Dick then. "Tell me what— _exactly_ —happened."

Dick doesn't hesitate. "Louisa and Ariana left me to look around this really beautiful room, and Nicola found me. He asked me if we started going out after that night I was at the Tavern, and I said yes. He asked if I would've gone home with him instead—" Roman scoffs, "—and when I tried to tell him to back off, he decided he needed to inform me that you don't _love me."_

Roman laughs, looking actually humored by the whole thing. Dick smiles hesitantly back. "Yeah, I laughed too. He _really_ didn't appreciate it."

That makes Roman laugh a little bit more. "No, I imagine not, the stupid boy. Then what?"

"I told him that I don't need his protection, and that you and I aren't about love. That was when he kissed me, and when I subsequently kneed him in the balls."

Roman tilts his head, watching Dick. "Was it good?"

Dick laughs, startled and incredulous. "Was it—Roman, it lasted barely a second." Three seconds, actually, but he can keep that piece to himself.

"That," Roman says pointedly, eyes narrowing, "isn't a _no."_

"Then _no,"_ Dick says quickly. "No, it wasn't. It wasn't anything. And I think the part about me injuring him says pretty clearly my thoughts on him kissing me."

Roman snorts. "You want points for that, sweetheart?"

Dick considers his answer for a moment, and then figures that Roman seems to be in an actually okay mood. The meeting must have gone _really_ well if he's responding like this. "Kinda, yeah."

The other man seems to consider him for a moment, and then reaches over, grasping Dick's chin between his fingers. He uses the hold to pull Dick closer, and Dick goes pliantly, heart speeding up a little as he waits for whatever Roman is going to do.

He brings their faces very close together, and when Dick can feel Roman's lip brush his own, the older man says, "Good job."

Dick jolts, eyes going wide. "I—what?"

Roman chuckles softly and then lets Dick go, turning his attention away. He pulls out his phone, and unlocks it, and seems to focus on whatever it is he's looking at.

Dick stays where he was left for another few moments, absolutely stunned, and then slides back over to his seat, barely daring to breathe.

Is that really it? Is that...is Roman really letting this _go?_ Not only letting it go, but actually _complimenting_ Dick along the way? Is this opposite day, where suddenly Roman isn't one of the most possessive, irrationally jealous people on Earth? Has he been taken over by an alternate version of himself? Is Dick dreaming? Is this all an illusion?

He doesn't say a word the rest of the car ride, afraid of breaking whatever peace has settled over them. Roman doesn't speak either, looking perfectly calm and content.

He stays that way when they arrive at their building, and in the elevator ride, and when they enter the penthouse. He heads towards his office and Dick follows silently behind him, having not yet been dismissed, and waits for the other shoe to drop.

It doesn't drop.

"I have to go back out in a little while," Roman tells him, removing his gloves and tossing them onto his desk. "I probably won't be back 'till late. Do whatever you want."

 _Do whatever you want as long as you don't leave the penthouse,_ Dick knows is what he really means. It doesn't need to be said.

"Okay," Dick agrees. "So I'm gonna..." He gestures towards the door, seeking permission to leave.

Roman smirks at him and nods. Dick turns and walks out quickly, before the man can change his mind. He doesn't know what's gotten into Roman, why he's acting like this, but he's certainly not going to question it if it means he gets a bit of a reprieve.

He takes a leisurely shower and then pulls on comfy sweatpants and a t-shirt, returning his regular collar to its place around his neck. When he wanders back out into the main area of the penthouse he sees that Roman has already left, so Dick is left to have his own peace for a few hours.

He settles in the living room, pulling up Netflix on the TV and then picking some random rom-com that he remembers watching with Donna and Wally once.

He must fall asleep, because he's startled back into awareness sometime later by a door slamming, and the movie playing on the TV isn't the one he started.

Dick rubs his eyes, squinting around for the source of the slam. But the penthouse is silent again, no sounds reaching him except for the TV and his own quiet breathing. He glances at the clock on the wall; 1:27am. If that's Roman returning, he was gone for over four hours.

There's a loud crash, one that has Dick popping instinctively to his feet, heartbeat speeding up in preparation of a coming threat. Another crash, and a heavy bang.

After a moment's debate, Dick cautiously makes his way in the direction of the noises. It takes him down the hall where the library and Roman's office are, and this time he's close enough that he can tell the next crash comes from the office.

Dick hesitates. He absolutely doesn't want to go in there and face whatever has sent Roman into a rage. The door's closed, anyway, and he's not supposed to enter when it is. Everything is safe, he's identified that the crashing and banging isn't a threat; it's just Roman...throwing a fit?

Whatever was bad enough to make a man like Roman—who prides himself on his control—lose it like this is something Dick absolutely doesn't want to face.

He turns back around on light feet, but he's waited too long and the office door is slamming back open.

Dick's eyes go wide as he sees the pure _fury_ in Roman's eyes, the anger in every line of his body, the malice in the curl of his snarl. Behind him, Dick can see that his office is a wreck, papers and objects strewn across the floor, his chair upturned, one of his cabinets on its side with drawers hanging open.

There's a momentary pause, Roman not expecting to see Dick there, and then the man's eyes darken even further. _"What_ do you want?"

Dick shakes his head, blood pounding in his ears. This is dangerous. This is very, _very_ dangerous. "Nothing," he says quietly. "I—nothing."

Roman laughs, an ugly noise. Dick swallows. "You sure about that? Your _family_ sure enjoys _taking."_

Dick's chest tightens. His family? Fear grips him. _Are they okay?_ "Did something happen?" he asks. _Please, let them be okay._

Roman snorts, sneering at him, and turns to head back into the office, leaving the door open behind him. Dick doesn't move for a few seconds, but the need to know if his family is alright propels him forward, cautiously stepping into the office, avoiding the broken objects that litter the ground.

 _"Yes,_ something happened. What _always_ happens in this fucking city." He grabs a bottle of scotch and takes a swing from it, not bothering to pour out a glass. "Those _assholes_ who pass for _heroes_ in this shit place _happened."_

Alright, so Batman and Co. messed something up. They're probably fine, then. Roman wouldn't be this angry if he'd managed to kill one of them.

"They always show up," Roman snarls, and turns his angry gaze back to Dick. "They always _interfere_ where they don't _belong."_

Dick stays silent. Nothing he says right now will make this better. It can only get worse.

"Sometimes I wonder," Roman says, and then he's pulling something out from behind him and _fuck it's a gun—_ "if I wouldn't be doing the world a fucking favor."

He points the gun at Dick's head. Dick can hear a faint ringing in his ears.

"Put you back in your suit, string you up somewhere," Roman continues viciously, seemingly captured by the idea. "An example for what happens when you screw with me. Or maybe just your mask, so people know who the dead bird is, but I can still show off what, exactly, I have done to you. What I can do to you _any time I want."_

Dick doesn't say a word. Any attempts at pleading will feed Roman's thoughts at the moment. All he can do is stay still and let it run its course.

Roman walks closer and closer, until the muzzle of the gun is pressed against Dick's forehead. Dick closes his eyes, making an attempt to breathe evenly. Roman's not going to kill him. He wants to possess him too much to let it end like this. Not a random moment of anger. No, not like this. If Roman ever decides to kill him—which he might, one day—it won't be like this.

"No begging for your life?" Roman asks.

"Would it make any difference?" Dick whispers, unable to raise his voice any more than that.

The gun drops. Dick lets out a shuddering breath, takes a moment to regain control, and then opens his eyes again.

Roman tosses the gun to the side, then does the same with the bottle of scotch, which shatters against the floor, making Dick flinch.

"Do you know how much your family cost me tonight?" Roman asks. He seems to be regaining control of himself, too, some of the incandescent rage pulling back to something colder, more easily contained.

Dick shakes his head wordlessly.

"Take a _guess."_

Dick almost wants to scoff; how the hell is he supposed to _guess?_ He didn't even know there was anything going down tonight, let alone what kind or how big!

He takes a shot in the dark for a number that would piss Roman off this much to lose. "Two hundred grand."

Roman laughs a little. "Oh no, if only it were that small. No, the Bat and his little fucking band of misfits messed up my deal and fucked with my product and _set some of it on fire,_ all together costing me _seven hundred thousand dollars."_

Oh. Wow. That's...a big number.

"Anything you want to say to that?" Roman asks.

What could Roman _possibly_ want him to say? Apologize for his family's actions? Say he's sorry for something that had nothing to do with him? Beg forgiveness or mercy? There's no right thing to say right now. There's no right thing to make Roman stop looking at him like he's debating all of the horrible things he could do to Dick with no one to stop him.

"That's a big number," Dick says quietly.

The slap comes out of nowhere, the back of Roman's hand whipping through the air and connecting with Dick's cheek. The force of the backhand is enough to actually send Dick sprawling to the ground. His hands go out instinctively to break his fall, and he hisses when one of them lands on a piece of broken glass from the scotch bottle.

His ears are ringing, his cheek throbbing. He's been hit quite a lot in his life, but he forgot Roman used to be a boxer, forgot the _strength_ Roman conceals under those suits of his. He wasn't prepared for the hit. And it's left him on the ground, dizzy and bleeding.

"Get out of my sight," Roman says coolly, and Dick can do nothing but obey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **IMPORTANT** because April is wonky:  
>   
> Next week (April 9th) will _not_ have a new NPOS chapter, because that weekend (April 10th-12th) is Dick Grayson Weekend, which I'll be participating in! So instead of a chapter of this you guys'll get some new [Grayson content](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548123/chapters/56486116) instead 🎉 Chapter 9 of NPOS will be posted April 16th  
>   
> AND THEN there will be _no_ new chapter of this on April 23rd, because that weekend (April 24th-26th) is Sladin Weekend (WOO HOO!!) which, if you guys know me at all, you know I will _absolutely_ be doing all three days of, because Sladick will _always_ hold my heart. Chapter 10 of NPOS will thus be up April 30th
> 
> Oof, April is jam packed. Am I over-extending myself? Mayhaps. But I want to do it so imma do it anyway 😁
> 
> Hope y'all check out all my new stuff, and enjoyed this chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!

Damian stands stiffly, holds folded behind his back, and watches the people around him mingle and make laps around the room, examining the various pieces of artwork. Playing faintly in the background is some form of music, though it's barely audible beneath the copious amounts of conversation throughout the room.

Frankly, Damian is unsure what he's supposed to be doing. He already went around and looked at everything before the event started, taking note of the students who managed to produce something truly good and the ones that should never have been admitted into the art show in the first place, and now he's just...hovering. He doesn't want to watch people look at his pieces, because that feels slightly creepy, but there's nothing to do but stand awkwardly near his art and accept the compliments people pay him.

He has an eye on the entrance at all times.

Whenever Grayson arrives, he'll know what to do. He'll think of something to get Damian in motion, and Damian will roll his eyes, and maybe they'll be able to grab dinner afterwards, once Damian has been present long enough to appease his art teacher.

It's been two weeks since the outing in the park with Grayson and his other siblings. Two very long, uncomfortable weeks. He's been living in the Wayne Foundation penthouse apartment, where he and Grayson stayed while they were Batman and Robin. Either Drake or Cain are always there with him, and he has both Alfred The Cat and Titus, but it's no comfort; every moment he spends there is a reminder of _why_ he's there.

Father...hurt Grayson.

Before coming to Gotham, before his time as Robin with Grayson as his Batman, Damian wouldn't have bat an eye at Father hitting his child. Grandfather and Mother had not been shy in dolling out physical punishments, and Damian had never complained; they were making him stronger, just like in each of his lessons. What was a hit compared almost bleeding his weight in blood when facing opponents at six years old, opponents he wasn't ready to face? What was a hit compared to climbing an icy mountain with no ropes and nothing to keep him alive except for himself?

But then he had Grayson as his guardian. Who never rose a hand to him outside of training, and even then never out of malice or an intent to truly hurt, just to teach. Who taught him to be kind and patient, who showed him love could be unconditional and didn't have to hurt. Who told him that no one has the right to harm him, not anyone, least of all the one in charge of his care.

Grayson made that clear. And yet, at the end of the day, Grayson continued for _years_ to work with the man who struck him. On multiple occasions. A man who...kicked him out of his home. Twice, that they know of.

Damian is struggling with all of this. Father has never been an openly affectionate type of man, enough that sometimes Damian doubts whether or not he even _likes_ Damian, but at the end of the day Damian believed his father to be a good man, a righteous one. He believed him to be a dutiful father, if not always an openly loving one.

But now this. Hurting Grayson, the best of them. _Damian's Batman._ The man who, really, continues to raise Damian. To love him and care for him. To show up for parent-teacher conferences, even, when Father is too busy to do so.

Sometimes, if Damian squints when he's looking at Grayson, and he's tired enough to let his thoughts drift, he can see maybe some similar features between them, enough to pretend for a single moment that Grayson is his father, and not Bruce Wayne.

It's always a ridiculous notion, and only happens whenever he and Father have had a large disagreement. Father's short words and cold tone always a sharp contrast to Grayson's patience and willingness to listen, even when clearly holding back anger.

When Drake suggested Damian stay at the Wayne Foundation penthouse instead of the Manor, Damian had protested. He isn't weak; he didn't want them to think he couldn't handle this new view of his father. He doesn't need to be coddled like an infant. He's seen many worse horrors out in the world than he will within the walls of Wayne Manor.

But part of him is...relieved. That he doesn't _have_ to deal with it. Maybe that makes him a coward, grateful to be away from an uncomfortable (and _stressful)_ situation, but nonetheless he _is_ grateful.

The penthouse feels strangely quiet, his memories of the place always accompanied by some sound of Grayson's. Singing, humming, cooking, watching TV, talking to himself under his breath as he tries to figure something else. This is a space for Batman and Robin—a very _specific_ Batman and Robin—and being there with Drake or Cain doesn't feel quite right.

Though he supposes he appreciates their...effort. Maybe. Not that he'd ever tell either of them that. It's bad enough that Cain probably already knows anyhow.

In two weeks, the only time Damian's seen his father has been on patrol, and even that was from rooftops away, paired up instead with Red Robin or Black Bat or Spoiler or, once, Red Hood. The comms are mostly silent save for updates on their statuses, but that's not too different from the weeks before this reveal; Grayson was often the one to draw chatter out of them, and now with what they all know, no one makes an attempt to do what he would.

Just one more thing that's different without Grayson.

The door opens, and Damian scans the group entering, absolutely not disappointed when he doesn't spot Grayson.

He just...needs to see his brother's status for himself. Grayson has a lot on his shoulders right now, is in an extremely precarious position, and who knows what foul things the cretin Black Mask is doing to him with him under his thumb? Damian simply needs to make sure Grayson is in one piece. That's all.

Once more, people enter the room, and Damian frowns when he sees Todd, dressed in a nice suit and hair combed into something perfectly orderly. Someone steps up beside him as his eyes start scanning the room, and Damian notes with some level of incredulity that it's Pennyworth.

Todd's eyes land on where Damian stands and he says something, nudging Pennyworth, before the pair of them make their way towards Damian. By the time they reach him, he's schooled his expression back into cool disinterest.

"Hey, squirt," Todd greets, and Damian dodges the hand that Todd is reaching towards his head; his hair is impeccable right now, and this _oaf_ will not ruin it.

"What are you doing here?" Damian asks suspiciously, looking between them.

"Your work is being honored, Master Damian," Pennyworth says. "How on Earth could we miss it?"

Damian's opening his mouth to ask how they even _know_ about this event when three more figures appear beside them. Damian blinks, startled. Brown, Drake, and Cain, all dressed in formal wear, and _here._

"What is this?" Damian demands. "I did not invite any of you."

"No, but you should've!" Todd says, and Damian sees him looking past him, towards one of Damian's pieces. "You've got talent, brat. Damn."

"Master Jason."

"Sorry, Alf."

Damian most certainly does _not_ feel his cheeks heat a little. He turns his nose up. "I do not need _you_ to tell me I have skill; I am in this show, am I not?"

"With four pieces," Drake agrees. "You know, rarely any of the kids here have more than two featured. Good job."

Damian narrows his eyes. Why are they all being so _nice?_ He does not require—

The door opens, more people entering, and Damian scans them for Grayson. He's absolutely not disappointed when he still doesn't see his brother appear.

When he turns his gaze back to the family members around him, he sees Todd and Drake exchanging a sad look. Something cold settles in Damian's stomach.

"Master Damian," Pennyworth begins gently, "Master Richard will not be attending tonight. He...cannot."

Damian blinks at him. _He...cannot._

His back straightens and he begins striding towards the door, head held high. He has a stash of weapons in his locker; he'll grab that first. And if Pennyworth drove here, then there should be masks in the car. It's not the same as his full Robin regalia, but he doesn't have the time nor the patience to go all the way back to the Wayne Foundation to grab it; a mask and weapons will do for his purposes tonight.

"Damian, _wait!"_

Cain catches his wrist; he debates twisting out of her grip, but he knows it's ultimately pointless. So Damian stops walking, stiff as a board, and turns to glare at her, and at the others behind her who have followed him out into the hallway.

"Release me," Damian demands.

"What's your plan, kid?" Todd asks tiredly. "Gonna storm the building?"

"I'm going to do what you should've done two months ago!" Damian snarls. "I'm going to free Grayson!"

Drake sighs. "Damian, we—"

"No!" Damian interrupts. "I am tired of excuses! I am tired of being patient, of twiddling my thumbs and hoping we don't get a call in the middle of the night that that _wretched_ man has killed Richard out of boredom! I am tired of feeling _useless_ and _weak_ and this is the final straw! Richard would—" Damian swallows. "Richard would move heaven and earth to be here for this. He would _never_ break a promise. He _swore_ he would be here, and you say he _can't?_ He's being harmed, and I will no longer sit back and allow it to occur!"

"We understand—"

"No!" Damian says again, practically shouting by this point. His eyes are stinging. "No, you can't possibly! You can't _possibly_ understand, or you would be _doing_ something!"

"You think we're not?" Todd shouts right back. "You think _we_ aren't moving _heaven and fucking earth_ to try and get Dick back? We love him too, you self-centered brat! We want to save him too!"

"Then why haven't you?" Damian yells. "It's been _two months,_ Todd! Why haven't you? Are you still so jealous of Richard that you would leave him to this fate?"

Todd snarls, taking a threatening step forward, but goes no farther when Pennyworth puts a hand gently against his chest.

"Perhaps," Pennyworth says quietly, "we should take this somewhere else. The noise in the gymnasium is loud, but if you both keep getting louder, eventually your words are going to be overheard."

With a deep breath through his nostrils, Todd steps away again, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Brown puts a hand on Damian's shoulder, and doesn't look impressed when Damian snarls at her, using the grip to guide Damian down the hall. He allows the touch, simply because he sees the truth in Pennyworth's words.

Drake leads them to an empty classroom, far enough away from the festivities that no one is around, and they all file in, Brown standing near the door to keep one eye on the hall in case someone randomly wanders down this way.

"Alright," Drake says levelly. "We've all got a lot of...emotions, about all this." Damian sneers at him. "But we can't turn on each other. All we _have_ right now is each other."

"I want to know," Damian grits out, "what is being done."

"Christ, you're a piece of work," Todd mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Why don't you just fucking _ask_ like a normal person instead of having a breakdown in a school hallway!"

Damian's cheeks heat. "I did _not—"_

"Hey, jackasses," Brown interrupts, and then sends an apologetic glance Pennyworth's way. "I get it, you all have a lot of testosterone and Feelings, but I don't have time for your crap, and neither does Dick." She looks at Damian. "I get why you're upset. He's like, Dad 2.0 for you, right?"

"He's not—" Damian begins, bristling.

"Save your denials for people who actually like Bruce right now," Brown says flatly. "What I'm sayin' is that you love him. You want him back. But storming in there? That's not gonna do anything except hurt Dick."

Damian glares at her. "What do you mean by _that?"_

Brown and Todd share a heavy look, and Damian is suddenly reminded of Brown's history with Black Mask, how she understands his sadism better than most.

"I mean," Brown says, "that Sionis is getting o—"

She stops herself from whatever she was about to say and clears her throat awkwardly. "Just, Sionis is enjoying the control he has over Dick. And he's using _our_ identities to assert that control. So what do you think is gonna happen if you go in there, sword raised? You can't kill him, because we don't know what failsafe he has for releasing our identities. Arresting him would be pointless, because he'd be out within the hour. You can't grab Dick and run, because there's a _reason_ he hasn't already fucked off by himself.

"You're not a dumb kid, Damian, so why don't you tell me what happens next? After you've broken into _Black Mask's_ penthouse, only to not be able to do a goddamn thing for Dick. What happens then?"

Damian's shoulders curve, defeated. "If I am captured, Black Mask will make a show of his dominance over Richard in front of me. If I am not, Richard will still have to watch me leave him there."

"We're _trying,_ Damian," Todd says. "Alright? We're trying. But this isn't like stopping a bank robbery; there are multiple levels to this, and we have to address and handle each level before we can extract Dick. I want to bash Black Mask's face in as much as you do. Hell, I want to watch his entire world go up in flames around him. But right now, that's not an option."

Silence falls over them, and it is far from peaceful.

"Why don't we all go get something to eat?" Pennyworth suggests gently after a little while. "I think everyone could do with warm food right now."

Drake's phone goes off as they're all nodding, and he pulls it out, holding it up to his ear.

"O, hey, what's up?" A pause, and then his back straightens. Everyone else automatically snaps to attention in response. "Shit, are you sure? ...Alright, okay, we'll be there as soon as we can. Bye." He hangs up, and looks at them all with a cocked eyebrow. "That was Babs; anybody in the mood for a fight?"

* * *

Jason shifts his weight, feet scuffing quietly against the gravel of the roof he's crouched on. The lenses on his helmet zoom in, and he scans the open area beneath him, counting grunts with guns and grunts without them. There's a lot, for sure, but Jason doesn't doubt his family's capability to take everybody out anyway; each of them are thrumming with energy, and this big fight is exactly what they need.

Not even the presence of Batman can ruin this for Jason.

"I'm in position," he murmurs.

 _"I see you,"_ Red Robin says back, and a quick flick of Jason's eyes up and to the left shows him Tim's hiding spot. Jason salutes him. _"I count thirty-seven, how about you?"_

"Forty-two," Jason replies. "There's a few behind the orange shipping container, in your blindspot."

 _"Forty-six,"_ Batman says. _"A car just arrived from the back."_

 _"Does this feel overkill to anyone else?"_ Spoiler grumbles.

 _"Nope,"_ Oracle replies, sounding amused. _"Maroni and his partner have been putting a lot of money into this deal; frankly I'm surprised an entire army isn't here to act as guard."_

"Still no clue who the partner is?" Jason asks.

 _"No,"_ Batman says. _"Whoever it is is better at covering their tracks than Maroni is. I've been tracking this for a few weeks now and it's still up in the air."_

 _"Well, they'll probably show up tonight,"_ Red Robin muses. _"I mean, for a deal this big? You can't only send grunts to do your dirty work. Both Maroni_ and _his mysterious partner should make an appearance."_

They're all well-accustomed to long stakeouts, so they settle in, watching as the underlings of Maroni and whoever the other person is mill around, sometimes setting things up or talking to each other through their walkie-talkies but mostly just waiting.

When activity picks up a bit, everyone seeming to jump to attention, Jason tenses in preparation.

A car arrives and the man who steps out of it is Maroni, surveying the area with a sharp gaze. He exchanges words with one of the gun-carrying grunts and then heads over to the small ship that arrived half an hour ago. He doesn't attempt to get onto it, just has a conversation with one of the men standing nearby, nodding a little.

 _"Incoming,"_ Spoiler says, right before another car pulls up. Maroni turns and calls out a greeting as the car door opens, and Jason leans forward a little to get a look at the mobster's mysterious partner—

 _"Holy shit,"_ Red Robin says, and Jason barely stops himself from echoing the sentiment as Black Mask comes into view, straightening his coat as he walks towards Maroni. The pair shakes hands and speak for a little while, and then turn to give orders to different groups of the men milling about. Immediately, the men start heading onto the ship and then hauling crates of unknown things off.

 _"We have to move,"_ Batman says, and it comes out an angry growl. _"We can't let the deal go through. Move in."_

No one argues with him, all of them so much more eager than they were before they knew Black Mask was involved.

Chaos erupts as they drop in to ruin the party, gunfire filling the air as the grunts attempt to kill them. Jason's maybe a bit more vicious than he normally tries to be, but he can't help himself; half of these men are Black Mask's, and Jason will hurt them with extreme prejudice.

He spots a familiar face as he's making his way through the assholes who think they're good enough to take him out, and punches Dick's "guard" Lou in the face with extreme prejudice. It feels good, so he does it again, and then kicks him in the groin to take him down.

_"Hood, the ship!"_

Jason's head snaps up; he sees Red Robin running towards the ship the men had been unloading, and finds that it's beginning to pull away from shore in an attempt to escape.

He's in motion immediately, sprinting after his little brother, and vaults over the railing, heading for the wheelhouse to stop whoever is driving the thing.

"Hi there," he greets with a grin the grunt can't see, and then slams the guy's head against the steering wheel, knocking him unconscious. "I'll take that, thank you." He grabs ahold of the controls and slows them down, easing back towards the dock.

"I am the captain now," Jason quips, and hears Tim chuckle back through the comm. When they're still again, Jason yanks some wires apart and uses the knife on his thigh to help pop the wheel off; if any grunt wanders back down here to try to escape, they'll find it very difficult indeed.

When Jason makes his way back out, he finds part of the ship on fire, crates and crates of whatever the product is now burning. He turns incredulously and is greeted with a manic grin on Red Robin's face.

"You said you wanted to watch his world go up in flames, didn't you?"

Jason laughs breathlessly, delighted, and wraps an arm around Tim's neck in a brief, makeshift hug before leaping off the boat again.

The fight's all but over by this point, and Jason's eyes scan automatically for the one person he wants to see bleeding on the ground.

Roman Sionis is gone, though, and Jason hates that he's not surprised.

Batman, Spoiler, and Robin are currently going around and putting grunts in zip ties, so Jason goes over to one of the crates and pries it open, curious. He whistles, eyeing the rows and rows of guns.

"Damn," he mutters to himself, then raises his voice to call out, "Got some heavy firepower over here!"

"Really?" Red Robin calls back. "Because that is _not_ what I'm seeing behind Door Number Two."

Jason looks over to him and sees his little brother standing by a separate crate, lowering the lid to the ground. Jason heads over to him, and then his eyebrows shoot up when he sees what's inside.

"Damn," Jason says again. "Y'know, usually bad guys don't combine their shipments like this. How much you think they were lookin' to make off of all this?"

Red Robin just shakes his head, mystified, staring down at the countless bricks of what look like cocaine.

* * *

Wally races down the street, glancing down at his wrist to check the time; he's late, of course he is, and he blames Barry for it; they have superspeed, for god's sake! They should never be late to anything!

And yet somehow they always are, except for Jay, and since Barry was the first speedster to start being late to things, Wally will absolutely blame his uncle.

Not that his friends are going to care about that excuse; he's told it enough times since they first started out that it no longer has any impact on them. If it ever did, that is.

As he runs into the apartment, he's already saying, "Sorry, sorry, I know, I'm sorry."

"Every time," Donna says, exasperated. _"Every time._ How is it possible that it's every time?"

"Barry—"

"You're not even related by blood!" Roy objects, taking a forceful bite from the pizza in his hand. "You can't keep blaming him for your inability to keep time. We won't buy that bullshit and you know it."

Wally sends him a dirty look, but doesn't refute the claim.

Heading farther into the safehouse, Wally takes a look around. It's pretty clean, in that no-one-actually-lives-here sterile kind of way, but the living room has been taken over by pizza boxes and soda cans and random pieces of electronics. It sends Wally back to when they were the Teen Titans, when Saturday nights were often spent just like this, the five of them crowded around piles of junk food and trading stories or watching TV or play-fighting.

There's also a selection of alcohol, however, that certainly hadn't been at Titan's Tower when they were younger. Well, hadn't been there _often,_ at least.

"Where's Garth?" Wally asks as he makes his way over to the couches and throws himself down on one; he distinctly remembers Roy sending out a message to the Atlantean to come here too, along with the one he sent Wally and Donna. And Garth's not really one to ignore Titan messages, unless something important is going on.

"Couldn't come," Donna says, and smiles. "Dolphin's pregnant."

Wally's eyes go wide. _"What?_ Wow! Garth's gonna be a father! Why am I always the last to know these things?"

Roy rolls his eyes at him. "You're _not,_ dumbass; you're the fifth to find out, now be grateful. But he's sticking by her side right now, and we're not gonna bother him with anything unless we absolutely have to. Let him take care of his wife—we'll handle this shit with Dick."

The reference to why they're really here shifts the mood into something far more somber, and Wally slumps back in his seat.

In contrast, Donna leans forward, bracing her elbows on her thighs, and gives Roy a weighted look. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to do something for us," Roy says, crooking a tired smile. "We've been trying—well, we've been _searching_ —but..." He sighs, shakes his head. "I'll just show you."

 _"I_ am against this course of action," Wally feels the need to interject, just for the record. Are they keeping a record? They should be, if they're not.

"Which you've made known," Roy agrees, not missing a beat. He leans down and grabs something out of his bag and then passes it off to Donna. Donna takes it with a raised eyebrow, and then when she looks at what it is her jaw drops.

For a moment, she doesn't move, and then she pops to her feet, expression thunderous.

"Have you lost your mind, Roy Harper?" Donna yells. "Are you—" She keeps talking, but she's switched out of English and neither Wally nor Roy speak ancient Greek, so they're lost as to what's being said. Of course, going by the look on her face and the way she's looming over Roy, it's not hard to grasp the meaning.

Roy raises his hands peacefully in front of himself, eyes wide, and Wally can't help but grin a little; it sends him back to when they were all a bunch of teens, pulling pranks on each other and then being shouted at by Donna for being so dumb (right before she then pulled the ultimate prank right back at them).

"Don, Don! Donna!" Roy tries, and Donna draws in a breath, looking at him expectantly.

"Well?" she demands.

"Look, I had a very similar reaction when Jason first brought it up, but—"

Donna scoffs. "Jason, of course this is Jason's idea. He doesn't _understand_ what this really means, what it will mean to _Dick._ How can you agree to this? How can you put him through this?"

"He's already going through hell," Roy says levelly. "He's—he's _there,_ Donna. He's hit that spot. Right now, _everything_ is the lesser evil."

"But you don't know that this will actually help!" Donna says incredulously. "You are hinging this _lesser evil_ on the belief that this will fall _on Dick's side._ It could so very easily lean the other way! Have you considered that? How this could make things infinitely _worse?"_

"Yes," Wally sighs, coming to Roy's help; they had agreed together, after all. Just because Wally still hates this doesn't mean he didn't agree. "Yes, we've considered that. Safeguards are being created just in case." He smiles ruefully. "Jason's plan is insane, you're right; but he's also prepared for the fallout. It's pretty impressive, actually."

Donna slowly sits back down, and lifts the papers Roy handed her again, flipping through them. Her brow is furrowed, upset, but Wally can see the calculation in her eyes too.

It was never a question of whether or not Donna would help; just how much yelling she'd do before she did.

"I'll let you know when I find anything," Donna says after a few long moments, looking up. _"If_ you're sure that, at the end of the day, this won't hurt our friend even more than he already is."

Wally's thankful that Roy takes a moment to consider the question seriously instead of answering right away. His gaze is level and the set of his mouth grave when he says, "I think this will fall on Dick's side."

So Donna nods. "Alright then. I'll get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder that there will _not_ be a new chapter next week, since that's Sladin Weekend! Chapter 10 will be up April 30th
> 
> Also, I can't decide something so I'd like y'all's opinion on something! One of my fics for Sladin Weekend is getting long, and won't be finished by the day it's supposed to go up. So, should I put up what I have anyway and start (another) multi-chapter fic, _or_ should I publish a _different_ fic for that day of Sladin Weekend (one I have an idea for, and know will be completed in time) and then post the original fic sometime in the future when it's completed?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back! Had a blast with Sladin Weekend; my thanks to everyone who kudosed and commented! If you haven't read them and you're interested you'll find them [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775826), [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775886), and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23775910/chapters/57112294) 😊
> 
> Now on with the show!

"Don't cover it up."

Dick stills, eyes flicking up to meet Roman's in the bathroom mirror. The other man stands in the doorway, arms loosely folded over his chest, dressed for the day in a dark suit. At Dick's attention he walks forward, stepping up right behind the younger man.

Dick lowers the tube of concealer to the counter and remains still as Roman's hand lifts, the back of his knuckles brushing gently over Dick's cheek. Dick's very _bruised_ cheek; even the lightness of that touch stings a little, but Dick doesn't flinch away.

"We're going out today," Dick says slowly. "Everyone will see it."

Roman smiles. "Yes," he agrees. He steps away, then heads back towards the door, calling over his shoulder, "Don't cover it up."

Dick frowns after him for a moment, confused; the whole _point_ of the copious amounts of makeup he possesses is so that he can conceal what Roman does to him, so the media doesn't see it and start throwing around _Domestic Abuse,_ so the general public doesn't start getting ideas and making (however correct) assumptions. Why now, with this bruise?

It's not a pretty thing, after all. Roman hit him quite hard last night, and the deep red it was when he went to sleep grew into the mottled purple and blue it is now, his cheek a startling and obvious mess. It's obvious he was struck, and struck hard. This is the exact kind of thing he should be working hard to cover up, not leaving bare to the world.

But he's not going to argue the point, despite how he wants to. He's too exhausted after such a restless night, too on-edge from Roman's rage, however faded that might be now. If Roman wants the world to know he hits him then he supposes it's Roman's right to do it. If he wants to ruin his public image, that's his prerogative. It's not like _Dick_ will be the one people think badly of.

Just pity. Which isn't great, but he can live with it.

So Dick puts his things away and goes back into the bedroom, finishing getting dressed. When he's perfectly presentable—minus the giant bruise on his face, of course—he heads out, making his way towards the elevator.

Lou and Joseph are there, and both glance over when Dick approaches. What Dick sees gives him pause; Lou has a shiner, puffy and recent, and there's a stitched up cut on Joseph's cheek. Lou sneers at him briefly, unhappy, but Joseph's gaze flicks down to Dick's cheek before back to his eyes, and then offers him a small smile.

It takes Dick barely a moment to realize what happened to them; they must've been at Roman's deal last night, the one Bruce and the others busted up. They can't be overly pleased with him, then, but he's not particularly worried; they won't try anything to get back at him for his family's actions. They wouldn't dare, because they know Roman would kill them.

He can't trust anyone in this world, but he can trust that.

"Ready to go?" Roman asks, coming up behind him and then passing, entering the elevator.

Dick nods, heading in after him, frowning faintly when Lou and Joseph follow; usually when going out with Roman, there are different guards. Lou and Joseph are just for when Dick's by himself. Why the change? Especially when they're clearly injured like he is?

Whatever Roman's game is, Dick has a feeling he isn't going to like it.

The man sitting at the desk in the lobby does a double-take, eyes lingering on Dick's cheek, but averts his gaze quickly enough. Dick doesn't look at him, just allows Roman to escort him out the door and into the waiting car.

Roman holds his hand during the ride, thumb stroking absent-mindedly over his knuckles, and Dick stares at it the entire time, confused and forcing himself to not ask.

Fascino is one of Gotham's most expensive, high-class restaurants, which of course means it's one of Roman's favorites. Dick's been here countless times, back with Bruce and now with Roman, and he knows it's packed with Gotham's upper-society having lunch, CEOs talking business over drinks, and the occasional reporter than manages to get an interview with someone in a place like this.

It's a place that's sure to have news travel fast. Dick's face will be a topic of discussion very soon, and he still doesn't get _why._

They're led easily to a table and sit down, a waitress appearing as soon as they're settled. The staff here is impeccable, so her eyes don't linger on Dick's cheek, her polite smile not faltering at all. She simply takes their orders and then heads off again, leaving them alone.

The other patrons do not have the same level of decorum, and out of the corner of his eye Dick can see some of them glancing over, hushed conversations starting up as eyes flick over and away, over and away. Roman acts like he hasn't noticed, perfectly content, and Dick once again can't help but wonder about the plan here.

Right after they've received their meals, a group of men enter the restaurant, being led to a large table of their own. Dick glances over automatically, tracking the new arrivals, and then stills when he spots Tim amongst the group.

Dick looks back to Roman, whose lips curve in a smile.

"You knew he'd be here," Dick says, not a question, the words accompanied by a heavy feeling in Dick's gut.

Roman inclines his head. "Andrew there—" he nods to one of the men with Tim, "—is a talker, likes boasting about the _important_ things he gets to be a part of. One of which was this business lunch with Wayne Enterprises. Of course, I didn't know whether it would be Brucie himself or Drake here, but the effect would be the same either way, don't you think?"

"All of this extra attention you're going to be getting," Dick says tightly, "just so my brother could see my face?"

Roman doesn't reply, simply smirks.

Dick looks back over to Tim. Despite the circumstances, it _is_ good to see his brother. It's been just over two weeks since that outing with his siblings, and he knows that by this point Jason must've told them what's been happening with Roman. Tim looks tired, but that's nothing new really; he, like most bats, has a tendency to overwork himself, and Bruce has never been any help in getting Tim to slow down. With the added stressors recently, Dick can only imagine how much worse that's gotten.

And this, right now, is _certainly_ not going to help.

Tim glances around, probably feeling eyes on him, and spots Dick. There's a moment of surprise, something like _relief_ mixed in, and then Dick can see the moment Tim registers the bruise. His expression freezes, his eyes flaring—

And then he's murmuring something to one of the men in his group and making his way across the restaurant towards Dick and Roman's table.

"Hi, Dick," Tim greets, and there's a minute tremor to his calm voice that Dick only hears because of how well he knows his brother. "You okay?"

"Fine, Tim," Dick says tightly. "It's nothing, just a bruise."

Roman chuckles, shaking his head. "Go on, sweetheart," he encourages. "Why don't you tell your brother _why_ you're all bruised up?"

Dick glares at him, jaw clenched, but Roman doesn't back down, just looks at him expectantly. He knows Dick will give in, because Dick has to; he's not bothered by the hesitation, Dick's anxiety over this whole situation. Probably takes some pleasure from it, really.

Not looking at his brother, Dick levelly says, "There was an incident last night."

"What kind of incident?" Roman prompts indulgently. Unlike Dick, he's staring right at Tim, something vicious in his eyes.

"A...deal went bad," Dick grits out. "Roman lost a lot of money. But I'm _fine."_ He looks up at Tim, insisting, "I'm perfectly fine, Tim. It's okay."

But Tim looks like he's going to be sick, horrified as he looks at the bruise and understands that it's there because of him and the others doing their jobs. It's not their fault, though, and Dick doesn't blame them. They can't stop being heroes simply because Roman has control of Dick. That's not how this works.

Mission first. The mission always has to be first.

"I'm sure they're expecting you back," Roman says pleasantly. "Have a nice day, Mr. Drake."

Tim looks at Roman, and for a moment there's such a deep well of hatred in his expression that it almost takes Dick's breath away.

Roman smirks back at Tim, eyes dark, and salutes the boy with his wine glass.

* * *

Andrea Blake has been searching for a story.

Because she's good at her job, you see. _Excellent,_ in fact. And she's got the brains and skills that by this point—after working at the Gotham Gazette for two years—she should've had bigger assignments than the fluff pieces that her sexist boss keeps handing off to her. Andrea is an _excellent_ journalist, and if she has to write one more article about the latest puppy who needs a home she's going to rip her hair out.

So yes, she's been searching for a story. Something she can get to first, something that she can pull together thoroughly enough that her boss won't be able to turn it down unless he wants to lose the story because she has _no_ problem taking it elsewhere if he still refuses to let her do her job.

And there it is, sitting a few tables away. The widely-beloved Richard Grayson, Wayne heir, sitting with the new hot-and-heavy boyfriend Roman Sionis. Not an unusual sight these days—the pair aren't shy about being out in public together—but the thing that catches her eye is that bruise on the twenty-six-year-old's face, an ugly mess one only gets from being hit.

Andrea's lived in Gotham almost her whole life, she can tell.

And then at the next table are the two bodyguards Grayson is always seen with, the ones provided by his boyfriend. They're injured too, she sees, the shorter one with a shiner around his left eye, and the taller with a stitched cut on his chin.

Grayson by himself, Andrea would immediately go to domestic abuse; not a hard jump, really. But three out of four of them? Now _that_ is rather odd. _That_ means something is going on.

Technically, Andrea isn't supposed to be at Fascino. Not only could she never afford this place in a million years, but she's supposed to be down at the botanical gardens doing a piece on the new flower they recently acquired. But Billy—one of the waiters here—owed her a favor after she got her brother at the GCPD to drop his speeding tickets, and she wanted in during today's lunch rush. The who's who of Gotham tends to show up here, and she'd been hoping for something to bite on, _something_ to give her a starting place for a story.

She'll have to send Billy a thank you gift for this.

Andrea stands from her seat and makes her way over towards her targeted table, trying to steel herself; she's heard that Richard Grayson is easy to talk to, but that Roman Sionis can sometimes be obstinate in regards to the press. She has to keep her cool, not get riled up like Vicki says she can sometimes.

Grayson notices her first; she can see his attention shift, his brow furrowing for a second in probable confusion before his expression smooths. The bodyguards at the other table notice her next, and the looks they give her are far more appraising than Richard's, probably examining to see if she's a threat. They must deem her okay, because they don't attempt to stop her.

Sionis is the last to see her, and she holds her chin high under his gaze, but it's _intense._ Laser-focused and powerful, superior in the way that all rich white men are.

"Hello," Andrea greets them both, smiling politely. She has her phone in her hand, set to record. She sees Grayson's eyes flick down towards it, then towards Sionis, and then back to her face. "My name is Andrea Blake, I work for the Gotham Gazette. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

Grayson smiles back at her, just as polite as her own and a little on the warmer side, but all the motion manages to do is draw more attention towards this injured cheek.

"I'm sorry," Grayson says, and sounds genuinely apologetic. "But we really just want to enjoy our lunch together. Why don't I give you my number and we can set something up? You can ask all the questions you like."

Andrea opens her mouth to push back— _nicely,_ of course—but Sionis beats her to the punch, saying, "Come now, Richard, she was brave enough to approach, we might as well hear her out."

He puts his hand over Grayson's own on the table, squeezing gently in what looks like a supportive gesture, and Grayson smiles at him before looking back at her and nodding. "Alright, what can we do for you, Ms. Blake?"

"Very simple, I was curious about what happened to you and the two gentlemen at the next table?"

Grayson grimaces, and on the table his hand turns upright to hold Sionis' back.

"It's alright, sweetheart, you don't have to talk about it," Sionis says gently. "I can tell her, if you'd rather?"

Grayson just nods, not saying anything.

"He got attacked last night," Sionis tells her, voice lowered, expression sympathetic as he looks at his younger partner. "He was going for a walk, just getting some fresh air. Louis and Joseph went with him, of course, but..." He shakes his head, sighing. "There are quite a lot of awful people in the world; they recognized him, threw around some slurs I'd really rather not repeat. Got in a hit or two before Louis and Joseph got him out of there."

Sionis' brow pinches. "The fact that it's twenty-nineteen and there are still idiots who think beating up gay people is okay just astounds me."

Grayson's gaze flicks up, meeting Sionis' eyes, and he smiles weakly when Sionis presses a kiss to the back of his hand.

"So you're saying this was gay bashing?" Andrea asks, leaning forward a little. "Did you file a police report?"

"I just want to leave it in the past," Grayson tells her tiredly. "I'm not interested in exploring this any further. Besides, I don't remember any details about the people who attacked, anyway, so it's not like it matters."

Andrea wants to point out that his bodyguards probably remember something, and even the smallest of details could be good to report so that it's easier for the police to catch the perpetrators the next time they do something, but she bites her tongue; Grayson doesn't look like he's in the mood for a civics lesson, and he's obviously had a stressful go of it. She isn't going to add unnecessarily to that.

"I saw that your brother briefly joined you at your table; how does he feel about what happened?"

Grayson looks surprised by the question, and Sionis speaks instead. "Oh, it was nice to see Timothy. Things are tense in that department so it was good to see him actually making an effort to say hello, especially around a subject like this."

Andrea zeroes in on that. There have been mutterings, of course. Idle _gossip,_ really. That there was some sort of issue between Grayson and the rest of the Wayne family. In recent months especially; Andrea's pretty sure that over the last two months, there was only one occasion Grayson was actually seen with his family. And at the various galas they've all attended, they've barely said a word to each other.

People giving them the benefit of the doubt figured Grayson was just wrapped up in his new romance, but others whispered about how when Bruce Wayne thought no one was looking, he seemed to have an intense dislike for Sionis.

"What do you mean by 'tense'?" Andrea asks. "And a 'subject like this'? Is your sexuality a point of contention in regards to your family, Mr. Grayson?"

For a moment, it looks like Grayson has lost the ability to speak, staring at her like he can barely understand what she just asked. Then he looks at Sionis, eyes narrowed. _"Roman."_

Sionis grimaces at his boyfriend, apologetic. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—" He cuts off, shaking his head, and then looks at Andrea. "I misspoke, don't think anything of it."

Yeah, right. Like she'll believe _that_ for a single moment.

"I'll let you get back to your lunch," Andrea says, and hits the _End_ _Recording_ on her phone, walking swiftly away and dialing as she goes.

 _"Hello?"_ a groggy voice answers.

"Emma! You love all that celebrity gossip—tell me, when Richard Grayson stopped living with Wayne, how old was he?" She pushes outside the restaurant, grinning. "And when was he first seen dating a boy?"

* * *

"Can I help you with something, Richard?" Roman asks casually, continuing to eat his meal like nothing is wrong.

"What are you _doing,_ Roman?" Dick asks lowly.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Dick closes his eyes, taking a breath. "You've had your fun, okay? I get it. Just...leave it. Please."

"Oh, sweetheart," Roman murmurs, smiling darkly. "I'm only just getting started."

* * *

When Bruce's phone rings, he answers without looking, raising the device to his ear; he's expecting a call from Lucius about a new WE project, and the other man said he'd call around two.

"Bruce Wayne," he greets by habit.

_"Mr. Wayne, my name is Andrea Blake with the Gotham Gazette. I had a few questions for you."_

Bruce withholds a sigh; he knows better than to answer his phone without looking, after all these years. Unknown numbers are _always_ a no-go, because the press finds creative ways to get his phone number and then bombard him with questions.

"Ms. Blake—"

_"Is it true that you kicked your son Richard out when he was seventeen years old for being gay?"_

Bruce blinks, stunned. "I—what?"

_"It's all on record that your son—while still a minor—left your residence and his position as a student at Hudson University at the same time before turning up on his own in a whole other city shortly thereafter. A reliable source has said that this is when Richard came out. Care to comment on any of this, and the status of his disownment?"_

Bruce jolts, straightening in his seat. Usually he's so much better at handling the press and their uncomfortable questions, but this is...unbelievably surprising. Bruce can't even _remember_ the last time someone asked him about Dick's sexuality, and it _certainly_ was never connected to what happened when Dick was seventeen.

"I'd never disown Dick," Bruce replies, because it's the thing that catches at the end, the only thing he can think to say at the moment.

 _"But you_ did _kick him out of the house?"_

Bruce does something he hasn't done in years with the press—he flounders.

"I—no, no Dick needed space to figure himself out, it was all very amicable—"

_"Is that why in the nine years since Dick moved to Bludhaven you've only been seen visiting the city a handful of times, while Dick has returned to Gotham on countless occasions?"_

There was just...never any need to go to Bludhaven. Everything—every _one—_ is in Gotham. It simply made more sense for Dick to come here. Why would they go...

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This does not look good.

_"Mr. Wayne, how would you address accusations of homophobia?"_

"I am _not_ homophobic," Bruce says sharply. Two of his children so far have shown they like the opposite sex, even if Tim isn't out yet, and Bruce has _never_ been anything but supportive in that department. He can't claim to be a perfect father, recent events have certainly pulled that into stark focus, but he is _not_ homophobic.

 _"You sound very defensive about that,"_ Andrea Blake comments. _"What can you tell me about why you've never legally adopted Dick, while the other three kids you took in after him have all been adopted?"_

Bruce is going to have to call his PR specialist, because this is not good. And this phone call is only the beginning. Andrea Blake will not be the last, after she publishes this. This is going to take over their lives for the foreseeable future.

"Goodbye, Ms. Blake."

He hangs up, and stares at his cellphone for a long moment.

"Fuck," he says quietly, and then picks up his phone again; he needs to call Tim.

* * *

That night, they go out for dinner. Dick doesn't understand why until they reach the lobby of their building and see the array of reporters, all of whom perk up when they see the pair of them.

"What have you done?" Dick breathes, fighting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut and scream.

Roman's hand is warm and large in the small of his back, guiding him forward, and Dick is helpless to stop him.

"You're going to play along," Roman murmurs against the shell of his ear as they approach the crowd of waiting vultures by the door, one of whom even has an actual studio camera with them. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"

Dick looks over at him blankly. Roman looks pleased with himself when he meets his eyes, smug like he knows he's already won.

Of course he's smug, he has every reason to be; Roman owns him, and gets to decide what Dick says and does. So if Roman says that he has to play along with this malicious, _slanderous_ mockery, then yes, he's going to. Because the alternative is the main news story being _Revealed: Bruce Wayne **is** Batman! Stay tuned for the identity of Robin!_

None of that changes the fact that he is desperately nauseous though.

"Dick!"

"Richard!"

"Dickie!"

"Mr. Grayson!"

All of them calling out to him, all of them looking hungry for what he has to say, and Dick hates it just as much right now as he did when he was nine years old and brand new to all of this.

But he's a performer, always and forever, so he pulls a smile onto his face, laughs lightly, and says, "Woah, everybody, slow down! Can barely hear myself _think._ What can I do for you all?"

"First, how are you feeling after the attack last night?"

Dick offers the man who spoke—Jacob McCallan, one of the nicer paparazzi Dick's had the pleasure of encountering over the years—a thankful smile. There's a rhythm to these types of things, if you slide yourself in correctly, and Jacob has set them off on a good start.

"I'm alright, thank you for asking. Honestly, they barely touched me. This looks worse than it is, I promise," he says, gesturing to his face with a companionable roll of his eyes. "And Roman's been taking good care of me."

"I'm just happy he's alright," Roman interjects, wrapping his arm around Dick, pulling him closer. "And my thanks to all of the kind messages people sent us today; it was lovely to see such support from so many people for our relationship after something as tasteless as an attack for simply liking men. I can only hope Richard's family can be as supportive as all of you given time."

Like dogs having a bone dangled in front of their faces, the reporters latch onto what Roman just said, as he so obviously wants them to.

"Richard, is it true Bruce Wayne kicked you out for being gay?" someone asks.

Dick flinches. Christ, they're really doing this, aren't they? They're really going to paint Bruce as a homophobe.

"I'm bi, actually, and that's not..." He trails off, glancing at Roman. Their faces are so very close together, and Dick can see the vicious delight in the older man's eyes, expectant and waiting for Dick to do as he's told and play along.

"...It's complicated," Dick settles on weakly, looking back at the group of reporters. He can't bring himself to actually say it. He can't confirm this disgusting lie about his father.

"What's complicated about a man kicking his son out of the house?" another asks.

"Sweetheart, it's okay," Roman says, disgustingly sympathetic. "You don't have to defend him."

Dick just looks over at him, fighting the urge to cry. This is _wrong._ This is so very wrong, and it _kills_ him. He wants to rip out of Roman's grip, wants to tell the reporters _exactly_ what kind of man Bruce is, which is a damn good one. A man who donates an _unbelievable_ amount of money to _countless_ charities, including _multiple ones_ geared towards helping those in LGBTQ+ communities.

He isn't a fucking homophobe, and this is not something that is going to just blow over. They are _ruining_ Bruce's image, for absolutely nothing. For some pointless _payback._ It's disgusting, it's—

"What about everyone else?" someone asks. "How have Mr. Wayne's beliefs influenced the other kids he's raised?"

"Is that why you've only been seen with them once since the start of your relationship with a man? Do they also have a problem with your sexuality?"

"Are you concerned about your youngest brother still being raised by Mr. Wayne, and how he might begin to adopt these hateful beliefs if he hasn't already?"

"Well, you know what they say," Roman says, sighing like it's a great tragedy. "Like father, like son..."

"Damian is a good kid," Dick grits out. "He's—he's just a kid, a good one, so why don't we leave him out of this. Please."

"I think that's enough," Roman cuts in, tone protective like he's _saving_ Dick from this awful encounter. "I hope you all have a good night, but if you'll excuse us, I think we'll eat in instead."

Roman leads him back towards the elevator, arm firm around his middle, and Dick lets him without complaint. He feels pulled tight, like a rubber band right before snapping. He feels like if Roman looks at him the wrong way right now he's going to find the nearest sharp object and shove it in his neck.

Damian. They tried to say that _Damian_ hates gay people. He's only twelve years old, he doesn't need that kind of attention. It's _wrong._ Dick wants to sic each of Bruce's lawyers on all of them for defamation of character and probably a million other things that relate specifically to minors.

"Well," Roman says lightly as the elevator begins to climb. "I think that went well, don't you?"

The rubber band snaps.

Dick whirls around on Roman, shoving him back against the wall and pressing his forearm against the man's neck, baring his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam—he guard who'd accompanied them down to the lobby—jerk to attention, taking a halting step forward, but when Roman holds up a hand he stops, watching them uncertainly, one hand on his holstered gun.

"Can I help you?" Roman asks Dick, tone bored.

"Keep Damian's name out of your mouth," Dick hisses. He hates that he has to tilt his head up to meet Roman's eyes. "I hate _everything_ you're doing right now, because it's utterly _disgusting,_ but at least Bruce is a grown man. Damian is _twelve years old,_ and you need to leave him alone. Don't you _dare_ say anything like what you just said, never again."

Roman looks fascinated by what's happening, and Dick longs for his escrima sticks, longs for the days when if he had someone in a position like this, they were _afraid._

"What is it with you and that kid?" Roman asks, unbothered by the arm pressing against his throat. "That art show, now _this..._ honestly, sweetheart, what's so great about the brat that gets you this riled up?"

Dick presses a little more firmly, definitely straining Roman's breathing by this point. "Do you understand what I'm saying? Don't talk about him."

Roman's expression darkens, and Dick fights against the shudder that wants to run down his spine at the look. "You're going to want to take a deep breath and think about what you're doing right now," Roman says slowly, an easy warning.

No, no, _no._ No, Dick is so fucking _sick_ of this, of being called to heel, of _belonging_ to someone as despicable as Roman Fucking Sionis.

Not that him being sick of this matters even slightly. Nothing he feels matters at all.

Dick reluctantly steps back, glaring at Roman from the opposite side of the elevator. Roman clears his throat and rubs at his neck, more for show than anything else.

"That was cute," Roman tells him. "I'm even tempted to give you a free pass for it, considering the _good day_ I've been having."

The elevator doors open into the penthouse and Roman strides out. Dick follows after him, hands balled into fists at his sides, thinking about the time he was fifteen and he and Bruce went after the False Facers, and Dick got to punch Black Mask across the face.

He wonders if Roman remembers that. Probably; he's not one to forget a slight. It's probably not the pleasant memory for him that it is for Dick.

Roman leads the way to the living room, stripping out of his suit jacket and tie along the way, draping them over the back of one of the couches as he heads over to another, sitting down with a sigh.

Dick stands at the other side of the room, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched. Roman looks over at him, head tilted almost thoughtfully, and then he orders, "Strip."

Dick lets out a sharp breath through his nose and then does as he's told, roughly beginning to remove his clothes.

"Stop," Roman commands sharply, and Dick freezes automatically, looking to Roman's cold expression. "Try that again, with more respect for the clothes I so _thoughtfully_ bought for you. You are pushing it right now, sweetheart. You will not like what happens if you keep going."

Dick believes him.

With more care, Dick starts to strip again, folding his clothes and placing each article on a nearby chair until he's completely nude, save the "choker" around his neck. Then he looks at Roman, waiting for his next instruction.

"Come here."

Dick does, walking forward until he's standing in front of the other man. Roman's hand reaches out, idly stroking down his side and across his hip before dropping.

"Still so beautiful," Roman murmurs, almost to himself, and then shakes his head. "Kneel, you're gonna do something useful."

Dick barely keeps himself from rolling his eyes as he goes to his knees; is that what they're calling it now? _Useful?_

Roman unbuckles his belt and pulls down his zipper, pulling his cock out of his pants. Dick's hands fold behind his back and he relaxes his shoulders, used to this much at least. When Roman's hand settles on the back of his head and presses, Dick goes forward without complaint, allowing Roman to feed him his cock.

"Just like that, baby," Roman murmurs. "You're just gonna warm my cock. Go on, take it all. That's right."

Dick's eyes flick up as his nose hits the other man's pubes, watching Roman reach for the TV remove and turn the thing on. And then Roman doesn't glance at him again, flipping through channels until he settles on some random show Dick doesn't recognize by sound alone.

So Dick closes his eyes, relaxes his jaw and throat, and settles in.

* * *

_Alright viewers! What do you think? Richard Grayson—unreasonably kind hearted, or delusional?_

  * Totally delusional! If that was me I would never forgive my family! Buh-Bye and good riddance!
  * He gives gymnastics lessons to children for FREE. He's too good for that family!
  * That boy is a grade A++++HOTTIE!!! HAVE YOU SEEN HIS ASS?!?!!?! I've got a tumblr dedicated to it! Being sweet is just the whipped cream I want to LICK OFF HIM!!
  * You all know this is fake news right? Their publicist just came up with this angle to get their names all over the place. Stop feeding their egos! Ignore them and maybe they will finally understand that NO ONE cares about their stupid rich family. Us REAL people have REAL issues to deal with instead of crying about our Instagram followers! There's a guy that comes to the East End library EVERY WEEK to read to kids but you don't hear anything about that!



* * *

The next morning, Roman has breakfast set up in the living room.

Dick doesn't say anything, but he looks at it all cautiously; Roman's very particular, and he always has his meals at the dining room table, perfectly set and filled. This spread of breakfast foods in the living room reaches a level of 'casual' that Dick didn't think the other man was capable.

But there Roman is all the same, sitting with a datapad in hand and some ridiculous morning news show playing on the TV, one of those programs that have barely a single thing to do with _actual_ news past more fluff and gossip. Dick always enjoyed watching those with Cass, because her observations of everyone on them was always hysterical.

So Dick just sits down and makes himself a plate of food, settling in to hear about the latest drama surrounding Tom Cruise's upcoming movie.

It's peaceful enough for Dick to zone out for about twenty minutes, and then the topic of conversation shifts to the absolute last thing Dick would like to hear about right now.

"...can just _see_ how much it still hurts him, can't you? Honestly, my heart goes out to the boy. Watching this clip—well, it just breaks my heart."

"I know, I know," another of the women says, nodding along. "God, you see the look on his face when his partner says he doesn't have to defend Wayne anymore? It's like _his_ heart is breaking. Dick Grayson has been carrying all this pain for so long, and honestly I'm so glad it's coming out now, aren't all of you?"

A cheer from the audience, and a lot of clapping.

"Oh! Did you see the part of that blog post that talked about how often Grayson has visited Gotham since moving away, and how it's like, a _crazy_ amount more than the times any of his family has set foot in Bludhaven?"

"I did, I did."

"Rather one-sided if you ask me," another of them says, a tad snidely. "Honestly, the boy keeps coming back and coming back, attending all of these galas and Wayne functions, and does Wayne ever once visit his son in our sister city? No, no he does not. And yet Grayson keeps coming back..."

"Give him a break," one of them admonishes. "Wayne's the only parent he has left, it makes sense that he'd want to make an effort to keep in contact."

"To this level?" The woman makes a face. "No, nuh-uh, if that boy knows what's good for him he should take a step back from that family. Well, more than they've already done from him, that is. Him coming back over and over again—it's like he's trying to live up to his adoptive father's unreasonable expectations in the hopes of convincing the man to finally love him."

That...hits harder than Dick would like to admit.

"Rebecca!" one of them chastises, but the woman just shakes her head, unrepentant.

"And not _even_ his adoptive father," one of them reminds the others, a knowing look on her face. "That's another sign, you know. Wayne has five children, and the only one he's never adopted is Grayson. I don't know, makes you think."

"Makes you think how Wayne is a homophobe!" someone calls out from the audience, and everyone laughs.

"Alright, alright, settle down. Why don't we take some calls from our viewers...?"

Dick stands up, staring at his feet. He can feel Roman's eyes on him, but he doesn't want to look at the other man. He's close to shattering as it is. "May I be excused? And go out?"

"Why?" Roman asks. He sounds like he knows exactly why.

"Please?" Dick asks, voice sliding into a vulnerable territory he'd really rather it not.

There's a few moments where Roman doesn't speak, the room filled with the grating voices of the women on the TV belittling his family, and then Roman finally says, "Alright, you're free until dinner tonight. Go on."

Dick doesn't need to be told twice, heading quickly towards the bedroom to get dressed. He doesn't know where he's going to go, but at the moment, it doesn't matter.

He just needs _out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the "Alright viewers" section goes to [greyheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyheart), who wrote it while we were talking about this chapter and it was simply too good to not include! She also was a large part of crafting how I wanted to go about the media side of this thing, so a big thanks to her!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I got an ask on [my tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/) requesting to know what Roman looks like to me, and then a follow-up to clarify something, which really made me start thinking about it. Because you see, dear readers, before this I just kind of avoided it because I couldn't decide, and kept my descriptions of Roman vague on purpose. But these questions stuck in my head and wouldn't leave, so I've finally settled on the fact that in this universe, Roman never got that first mask seared to his face. So he looks like a regular human being. He is 6'2", blonde, and blue-eyed. He isn't as obviously muscled as Bruce, but he has strength to him. He is in his mid- to late-forties.
> 
> So there you have it, my view of Roman. Now on with the show!

"Bruce," Amanda says, as kindly as she can with still being firm, "you don't have to convince me."

Bruce falters and clears his throat, embarrassed. Amanda McCarthy has been the head of Wayne Enterprise's public relations department for almost fifteen years, and has weathered many storms for the Wayne family, always helping them come out on top. Of course, something as big as this hasn't happened before, so maybe Bruce had slipped into trying to convince her of his innocence, but he should've known better; she knows him very well, after all these years. She knows he's not a homophobe.

"Right," Bruce says a little awkwardly, and on the other side of the room, Tim snorts. When Bruce looks at him, Tim's smiles slightly, a wry, amused little thing, and Bruce works very hard to not collapse into his chair in relief, only smiling tiredly back.

To put it simply, Bruce misses his children. Technically, Tim and Cass are still living partially at the Manor as they take turns living with Damian in the Wayne Foundation penthouse apartment. He sees them during meals, and on patrol, and in the batcave for occasional training. But there's a distance that didn't used to be there, and Bruce finds himself missing them more than anything.

But that one little smile gives him hope that maybe not everything is ruined between them all. Maybe he can fix this. By god, he hopes he can fix this.

"Now, first thing I'd like to do is talk to Dick," Amanda says, and both Bruce and Tim grimace. Over by the window, Cass looks down. "If these allegations are as baseless as we know they are, him speaking to that would be the biggest help we could get. That won't solve all the problems raised—there's still the matter of Dick leaving home when he was seventeen—" a brief, stern look at Bruce, "—that won't be going away as easily. But our main focus right now should be correcting the homophobia accusations."

"Dick won't help us," Bruce says.

Amanda frowns. "What? Why not?" She looks between the three people in her office, and her expression pinches. "Okay, Bruce, I guess this is the part where you tell the full truth about if the public isn't wrong, so that I can actually help you."

Bruce looks at her, startled. Tim sits up a bit more in his chair. _"What?_ No! I thought you just said I didn't have to convince you—"

"That was before you informed me that your son won't refute the claims that you kicked him out for being bisexual," Amanda says firmly. "I've known Dick for just over fifteen years, and I've never seen him do anything less than give his all to helping you, your family, and this company. The fact that you're telling me he _won't_ do that now is...a bit telling."

He tries to look at it from her perspective, and yeah, okay, Bruce can see how that would really seem to be the truth. But how to explain that Dick would help if he could—he _would—_ but there's a psychopath controlling all of his actions?

"His boyfriend is an abusive asshole," Tim says bluntly, and Amanda's eyebrows shoot up. "Sionis is...he really likes fucking with Dick, and taunting Bruce. Dick won't refute any of this because Roman would get pissed at him and hurt him if he did. And we're not going to try to force him to speak up. So we have to handle all of this with the knowledge that Dick won't do anything to help, and might even do some harm."

Amanda purses her lips. "That's...a difficult position to be in."

Tim huffs a tired laugh, and slumps back in his seat. "Yeah."

"So that bruise on his face...?"

"A gift from Roman Sionis, bastard extraordinaire," Tim confirms, fingers curling into fists on the table.

There's a flash of anger in Amanda's eyes, something protective and ugly, before she gains control of herself again and steps back into professional mode. Bruce is reminded of the fact that Amanda has known Dick since he was just eleven years old, has watched him grow up in the halls of WE and out in the media. She's always liked the boy, and Dick always liked her, too. This can't be an easy thing to learn about someone you've known since they were a mere child.

"Alright," Amanda says evenly. "Okay. Setting _that_ aside for the moment, we have something else to address. Tonight there's an on-air interview scheduled with someone who claims to have some inside information on this issue. His name is..." She glances over at her computer, "...David Park. Are any of you familiar with him?"

Tim jerks upright in his chair, eyes going wide with what looks like fear. Bruce finds himself tensing instinctively in response, and sees Cass do the same before the girl walks over to her brother, sitting beside him and taking his hand. Tim barely seems to notice.

"I take it you know who this is?" Amanda asks, tone gentle.

"I—" Tim blinks rapidly, almost looking like he's going into shock. "Yeah, he's..." He closes his eyes, shaking his head with a grimace, and Cass squeezes his hand.

"Ex-boyfriend," Cass says when it's clear Tim isn't going to. "Tim's."

Amanda blinks. She glances at Bruce, who just looks back at her, equally surprised. He's known Tim is gay for a long time—Tim told the whole family as soon as he, himself, was positive about his identity—but Bruce never knew Tim had ever dated a boy other than the Kryptonian clone. He's never heard the name _David Park_ before, and apparently the boy is about to out Tim on television.

"Oh," Amanda says. "Okay. Did this relationship end amicably?"

Tim nods, and Bruce can see him squeezing Cass' hand back. "Yeah, it was fine. There were no...hard feelings. He was moving away, neither of us wanted a long-distance relationship at the time. I don't know why he would...Why would he...?"

Tim looks up at Bruce, helpless and afraid, and Bruce is instantly across the room, sitting on Tim's other side, a hand on his shoulder. Tim doesn't shrug him off, leaning into the contact, so Bruce wraps his arm around Tim's shoulder, supportive as best he can.

"Things like this can twist good people," Amanda says gently. "There was probably a lot of money offered, or the promise of his ten minutes in fame." She shakes her head, lips pressed into a thin line. "Whatever it is...Tim, I think we need to prepare you."

Tim looks up at her, and Bruce almost can't stand how young he looks, how lost and confused and afraid. Tim has always been far too old for his age, carrying far more than anyone should have to, and it's so rare that Bruce is truly reminded of the fact that Tim is only nineteen years old. He might be a legal adult, but he's still just a boy. A boy whose ex-boyfriend is about to forcibly out him to the world.

"Prepare me?" Tim echoes.

Amanda nods.

"Yes. At any time, someone as public as you are coming out is a big deal. Wayne Enterprises would experience a shift in stock pricing, there would be an enormous amount of media responses to field—some praising you and WE for being strong and progressive, others extremely insulting, and your sexuality would become a part of every interview you do from that point on. You would be expected to have opinions, and be outspoken for gay rights, and receive backlash if people don't believe you're doing _enough_ for the LGBTQ+ community.

"All of that would be intense by itself, and something I would work with you on how to handle. But Tim, right now, this is going to be a thousand times worse. Because now the focus is going to be on _why_ you haven't been out, is it because you're afraid of your homophobic father, does Bruce know, does _Dick_ know, did Bruce ever kick you out, are you only working at WE to gain Bruce's approval—"

"Please stop," Tim says quietly, and Amanda does.

"I don't want to scare you," Amanda says. "I really don't. But this is going to hit you very hard. I'm sorry, but it is. And you need to be ready for these questions."

"What do you suggest we do?" Bruce asks. "Is there any way to get ahead of this? Help ease some of that?"

"Tim coming out voluntarily right now could be perceived as the Wayne family trying to save face," Amanda says, grimacing apologetically. "Like saying, _Look, there's another one, no way is Bruce homophobic, especially with him standing behind Tim all supportively._ Which isn't great. Of course, doing it by himself _without_ Bruce present would look like one more Wayne kid in the LGBTQ+ community that doesn't have their father's support."

Tim actually laughs, but Bruce can feel him shaking a little; he tightens his grip in response.

"So what you're saying is this is a no-win scenario," Tim says, his grin tight on his face. "Damned if I do come out, damned if I don't. Damned if Bruce is there when I do it, and damned if he's not. You're saying this is going to suck no matter what."

"It's going to suck no matter what," Amanda agrees.

"Fuck," Tim says under his breath, and rubs a hand across his face. "I...I need to call Kon."

"Kahn?"

"Conner," Tim clarifies for the civilian in the room. "He's my boyfriend. If this is going to come out..." He huffs a humorless laugh. "If _I'm_ going to come out, he deserves to know."

"Is Conner out?" Amanda asks, looking thoughtful.

"Kind of," Tim hedges. "It's never really been an issue, I guess. He always...knew what he wanted. Didn't bother hiding it from people. He's never officially told the world he likes guys, but I don't think he's really had to."

"If the press knows you're dating someone, he won't really be left alone," Amanda says cautiously. "That could ruin your relationship. You know him—would he still be willing to support you through this?"

"Yes," Tim says without hesitation, and Bruce feels a burst of warmth for Superboy. Tim crooks a happy, fond grin. "Hell, he'd probably march down the street screaming that I'm his boyfriend if I let him. Might even fight a few reporters if he was in the mood."

Amanda's eyebrows arch, and she looks amused. "Well, that's good. And if he's willing, I think utilizing him might be a good idea. The interview with David Park airs tonight; sometime today you and Conner could make a video together. He doesn't have to say anything, just be in it with you as you come out yourself, in whatever way you want to. I could give you a million suggestions, but at the end of the day Tim, this is a big thing, and should be your decision. I'm very sorry that you're being forced to come out ahead of your time."

Tim smiles weakly. "Thank you. I'm...gonna go call him."

The teen stands up, sliding out of Bruce's grip and releasing Cass' hand. He offers them both a thankful look, though, before walking out of the room, phone in hand.

"Alright," Amanda says, pulling Bruce's and Cass' attention back to her. "We still have much more to talk about."

Cass moves over into Tim's seat, and gives Bruce a firm nod, chin held high. "Hit us."

* * *

Jason's phone rings just as he's getting out of the shower, and he simply stares at it for a moment, debating if he's actually up for social interaction.

But it could be an emergency with the lives they live—specially considering the gay shitstorm that started yesterday afternoon—so he dries his hands and picks up the device, clicking _Accept Call_ and then lifting it to his ear.

"Yello," he greets, bracing the phone between his ear and shoulder as he begins to dry himself off with a towel.

 _"Hey, Jason,"_ Tim's voice comes through, and even through the scratchiness of the phone, Jason can hear how worn out his little brother sounds. _"Can you uh, can you come over to the WF penthouse? I...could use your help."_

Jason frowns, striding into his bedroom and yanking on some clothes. "You okay? The kid okay?"

 _"Define okay,"_ Tim says dryly, and Jason huffs a light laugh, seeing the point. Nothing is okay at the moment, and Jason certainly doesn't envy his siblings for being in the public eye right now; there aren't really any perks of having died, but not having to be a famous Wayne kid is definitely one of them.

"Fair enough," Jason agrees, pulling his shoes on. "But what happened to make you need my help?"

 _"I'm about to come out,"_ Tim says simply, like he's commenting on the weather. Jason stills, surprised. _"And I just..."_

He trails off, but Jason understands; this is a big thing, and Jason is the current Big Brother of the family, when it comes to emotional stuff like this. He needs to step up into place and be there for Tim.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Jason tells him. "See you soon."

He gets to the Wayne Foundation in _fourteen_ minutes, thank you very much, swerving in and out of traffic on his bike, and heads up to the penthouse with the access keycard he has in case of emergencies.

When he steps into the large living room, his eyes automatically scan over the occupants. There's Damian, curled up in an armchair and sketching something in the notebook perched on his lap. There's Cass, walking back and forth on her hands behind the couch, a move that he's positive Dick taught her. There's Steph, feet up on the coffee table and playing some sort of game on her phone.

And sitting on the couch is Tim, with Conner Kent's hand clasped tightly in his own, the Kryptonian murmuring something to the human.

Tim looks extremely tense, his head tilted slightly towards Conner as he listens, and there's something about the way they're angled together that has Jason staying back for a minute, letting them be.

He knew, before today, that Tim and Superboy were an item. But there's a difference between knowing that—and teasing his brother over it—and actually seeing them around each other. It's...nice. They look in love. They look like _partners._ Jason's very glad that Tim has this.

After a short while, Jason steps forward, gaining the attention of the room of heroes. "'Sup party people," Jason says with a smirk. "Should I have brought balloons?"

Tim shoots him a wry smile. "Hey, Jay."

"Not that I'm trying to change your decision, because this is absolutely your thing," Jason says, "but is _now_ really the best time for you to come out? With...everything that's going on?"

"Well, my ex-boyfriend is gonna go on TV tonight and tell the world, so..." Tim shrugs a shoulder.

Jason takes a deep breath, pushing down a flare of anger; that won't help anyone right now. "Right, of course he is. Alright, so how are you handling this, then? Does Brucie Boy have some fool-proof plan to make it all better? What's Amanda's advice?"

Tim purses his lips, shaking his head. "This is my show," he says. "We're gonna make a video, and I'm just gonna talk."

Jason nods, supportive. This _is_ Tim's show; if he can't control _when_ he has to come out, he damn well should be able to decide _how._

"Where do you want me?" Jason asks, and Tim smiles at him.

Jason helps Steph set up the camera, the girl contributing a stream of chatter as they do it, and Jason knows they all appreciate it; Steph always has a way of putting people at ease with her blunt, sarcastic personality, and after her and Tim's break-up a few years ago, she's always been 100% supportive of Tim and his relationship with Conner, and extremely protective. Jason's glad she's here for this.

"Alright, Timmers," Jason says when they're set. "Whenever you're ready."

Tim nods sharply, his jaw clenched, and shifts slightly on the couch.

He's already changed clothes twice (settling on one of his best suits, minus the suit jacket, showing off the deep red of his button-down, expertly fitted) and changed positions in the living room five times, before settling back on the couch. None of them said a word about it, figuring he has the right to be nervous, but Conner had grinned and said, "Lookin' sexy, babe," when Tim finally picked an outfit, which made Tim blush and the rest of them smirk.

"Okay," Tim says tightly, and then rolls his shoulders, getting out some of the tension. "Okay. Kon?"

"Right here," the kryptonian confirms, and presses a kiss to the back of Tim's hand, grinning when Tim rolls his eyes at the gesture. "How do you want me?" he adds, lowering his voice a little in clear innuendo.

Tim's cheeks flame, and there's a loud groan from Damian and Stephanie. Cass snickers, and Jason laughs outright.

"If you could desist that for five minutes, clone?" Damian snipes, eyes narrowed at Conner. "If your presence is going to be more of a burden than an aid—"

"Shut it," Tim interrupts, but he's smiling, so Jason doesn't feel the need to intercede. "Alright, Kon, just...sit over here."

He pushes Conner over a little, having the kryptonian lean back on the couch, as opposed to Tim, who sits straight-backed and halfway forward, putting Tim in focus of the camera, with Conner still in view. And the way their hands are clasped together is, of course, obvious.

"Okay," Tim says again, taking a few deep breaths. He relaxes his posture a little, still perfect but less stiff, and calms his expression out of the nervous, pinched thing it's been for a little while. Soon enough he looks perfectly at ease and put together, then looks at Jason and nods. "Alright, Jason. Start rolling."

Jason does, the red light flicking on, and Tim offers the camera a small smile.

"Hi," Tim begins. "In case you don't know, my name is Tim Drake-Wayne. The past twenty-four hours have had a lot of awful things thrown around about my father, the kinds of things that could ruin a reputation forever. And through it all, I've just been thinking about my own life, and the way I want to live it. The way that for three years now, my entire family has never hesitated to support.

"I didn't want to be out," he confesses to the camera, and Jason can see Conner squeeze his hand slightly in support. "There's too much focus on my family, everyone always watching our actions, and it felt like too much pressure to give this piece of myself to the public. I was happy being out at home, and with my friends. It was never something I felt had to be out there.

"But yesterday, my dad got called homophobic. And all I could think about was how the day I told him I was gay, he didn't quite know what to say, so to show his support he had a rainbow cake made and bought a shirt that said _'_ _Proud Dad of a Gay Teen.'"_ Tim smiles at the memory. "And how now that man's story was going to be about not supporting his kids' sexualities, because that's what the world has decided is fact. Despite how much he's donated to LGBTQ+ organizations, and how often he's spoken up for that community as much as a straight, cis man can, and how I've never felt anything other than _safe_ around my dad, when it comes to this kind of thing.

"But I'm not doing this for him," Tim continues, shaking his head. His eyes seem wet. "I'm doing this for _me,_ and my boyfriend." A brief glance at Conner, who smiles back at him and lifts Tim's hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it, which draws a quiet laugh from Tim.

"Coming out should never be forced," Tim says. "It should be something everyone has the ability to do on their own time, in their own way. Dick did, when he went to Bludhaven. That was his time, his decision to let the world know. And frankly, my decision wasn't going to be now. Not in the middle of all of this. Maybe not even 'till _years_ down the line, or decades, or whenever _I_ felt like it was my time.

"But all of this..." He shakes his head. "It draws things into focus that you'd rather it didn't. And it no longer makes sense for me to hide parts of myself away, not when it won't matter even slightly to the world. People make up their own minds, and don't often change it, despite when given evidence to the contrary. I don't know what the future holds for my family, what all of this will mean for my siblings, but..."

A faint smile. "But my name is Tim Drake-Wayne, and I'm gay."

Conner leans forward, throwing an arm around Tim's shoulders, pressing a kiss to Tim's cheek. It makes Tim laugh, surprised, his face scrunching up in a real expression of joy.

"And I'm Conner Kent," Conner says, speaking to the camera but his eyes still on Tim, "and I'm lucky enough to have been with this idiot for almost a year and a half."

"Get a room!" Steph shouts from off camera, drawing a round of laughter, and Tim's cheeks flame red again, while Conner just grins.

"And with that," Tim says, huffing, "I suppose I end my coming out video. 'Till next time, world. I'm sure you'll all have a lot to say."

* * *

Dick tells Joseph to pick a direction and just keep driving.

He receives an odd look for that, but considering Roman's only caveat is to be back in time for dinner, it's not like Joseph is going to say _no._ Lou frowns a little at the request, but he stays silent, too, opening the back door for Dick and then shutting it behind him.

Dick sits and just watches the city pass by. He puts his mind everywhere other than the awful things that are happening, focusing on all the random, tiny details he can see.

A woman's grocery bag handle snaps, and she curses as items go tumbling out. A baby starts wailing when their father takes his car keys from their hands. Two kids play hacky sack on the steps of an apartment building. An old woman argues with the police officer giving her a ticket.

They drive for hours. They leave the city at one point, going out into beautiful, open roads, and Dick hums a song under his breath, one he doesn't remember the words to but knows his mother used to sing when he was little.

Dick wonders, sometimes, what his mama would think of him now. He knows she'd be proud of his work as Robin and Nightwing and Batman, proud of what he's done as a hero. But what would she think of what he lets Roman do to him? How he's a plaything, a _toy_ to a psychopath who delights in hurting people?

What would she think about the fact that he _likes it_ sometimes? That if he manages to forget _who_ he's with then he can actually gain some pleasure from the encounters? That he enjoys sex that's far kinkier than people tend to find acceptable, that he likes to let his partners take the control out of his hands, like to let them _hurt_ him, and praise him for taking it so well?

How would she look at him, knowing that he's Black Mask's whore?

Dick closes his eyes, and tries to imagine the little trailer they lived in back at the circus. The paintings they created all over the walls, some just random splatters from Dick, others detailed portraits from his father, others abstract landscapes his mother crafted. He thinks of the scent of his mother's perfume and father's cologne, the deep sound of papa's laugh, the way mama's eyes crinkled with happiness whenever she looked at either of them.

He wants them back so badly. He wants his mama to hold him, and his papa to stroke his hair, and for them to protect him from the horrors of the world like they did when he was a child. John and Mary Grayson would have quite a lot to say to Roman, if they were here. And to Bruce.

The thought almost makes him smile.

"We're going to turn around, Mr. Grayson," Joseph tells him, and Dick looks up. "Head back towards Gotham."

Dick just nods, figuring that makes sense; there's only so far they can drive away before they have to return, to get back in time, and maybe with some extra time to himself.

Silence falls again, and Dick keeps staring out the window. He watches the world outside change from rural landscapes to populated to Gotham City proper.

He spots something and perks up. "Wait, wait, pull over here."

Joseph glances at him briefly through the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised, and then does as requested, pulling over to the curb. Dick hops out as soon as they're stationary, and smiles up at the big building before striding up the stairs and inside. Joseph and Lou, of course, trailing behind him.

Dick's been to the Gotham Museum of Art many times over the course of his years living in the city, for various functions or field trips or visits with his siblings. He loves the winding halls, the way the architects specifically built it to feel like a maze. Dick could spend hours wandering the halls, and in a respectable place like this he's not going to have to deal with any reporters or gawking civilians.

There's a new exhibit since the last time he came here, and so Dick takes his time, moving from painting to painting, smiling at each of the unique sculptures, sharing a companionable glance with the occasional person he comes across.

Joseph and Lou hang back, clearly not enthused to be wandering through a place like this, so after a little while Dick grins at them, amused, and says, "Why don't you guys wait by the front doors, or on one of these benches? I'll make my way back there after I'm done."

Joseph frowns, the expression pulling at the stitches on his jaw. "We're supposed to watch you, Mr. Grayson. You know that."

Dick rolls his eyes and turns away, continuing to walk. "I wasn't twisting your arm, I was just offering since you both look bored as hell. It was just a suggestion."

He hears a bit of rustling, a few whispered words, and then Lou calls, "Mr. Grayson."

Dick turns back around, raising his eyebrows, and sees Joseph looking irritated and Lou looking smug. Dick's eyebrows raise even higher.

"We'll be by the entrance," Lou tells him. "Enjoy the museum." And then he drags Joseph away by the arm, the pair of them vanishing back the way they'd come. Dick watches them go, feeling terribly amused, and then shakes his head and continues on.

He most definitely does not think about Bruce or the rest of his family, or the awful things that are being said about them because of Dick. Well, because of _Roman,_ but it's...because of Dick. He doesn't think about any of that, absolutely not. He focuses on the beautiful art in front of him and keeps walking.

He's been alone for maybe half an hour when he hears, "I'm surprised to see you without your minders."

Dick turns around, surprised by the phrasing, and then his eyes go wide when he sees Nicola. He's standing at the other end of the exhibit, near the beginning of the next hall; Dick must've missed him when entering, or Nicola is doing the whole maze backwards.

"I—shit, Nicola—"

"I'm assuming you did end up telling Roman about our kiss," Nicola says as he walks closer, and now Dick understands the intense look the other man is giving him; he's staring at the bruise.

"I did," Dick confirms. "But this is...something else."

Nicola steps up beside him, looking thoughtfully at the painting Dick's in front of, and then back to Dick. There's a furrow between his eyebrows as his eyes slide over Dick's cheek, attention caught on the bruise.

"He hits you for more than one reason, then?"

Dick gives him a look, and then continues on, moving to the next painting. He has no idea why Nicola is here, why the universe decided _this_ is what he needed today. Today of all fucking days. As if his life right now isn't challenging enough, they had to throw in Nicola Maroni, the man far too _innocent_ for the world he lives in.

"Didn't we have this discussion already, Nicola?" Dick asks tiredly.

"That does not make it okay."

"No," Dick agrees. "No, it doesn't. But it does mean that I'd rather not get into it again; one time was stressful enough. Wouldn't you agree?"

Nicola doesn't say anything in response, so Dick takes that as agreement. They walk beside each other silently, admiring each piece of art one at a time, traveling through the near-empty museum.

"Where _are_ your minders?" Nicola asks after a little while.

Dick's lips curve, amused. "Bodyguards," he corrects, and Nicola chuckles quietly.

"Right, of course, my mistake," he says, nodding. Dick isn't looking at him, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Nicola smiling. "Where are your _bodyguards,_ then, Dick?"

"Why do you call me that?"

Nicola's brow furrows, confused. "I thought you preferred to be called Dick?"

Dick looks over at him. The confusion is real, the question genuine. It's that simple for Nicola; Dick likes to be called _'Dick',_ and so he calls him Dick. To Nicola, that makes obvious sense. But for Dick, it doesn't matter at all what _he_ wants to be called. Roman likes _'Richard',_ so that's what he calls him, and what, subsequently, everyone else calls him. Dick's preference doesn't even cross their minds.

"I do," Dick sighs, and lets it go, turning away again to keep walking.

Silence falls between them for another hallway, and then Nicola asks, "Are you alright?"

Dick sends him a look. "I thought we agreed—"

"I do not mean the bruise," Nicola says, shaking his head. "Though if you wish to talk about it, I am willing to listen. No, I mean with the influx of media attention, and the delicate subject matter it revolves around. My parents have never sent me away, so I cannot relate, but I do understand family members not being supportive of whom you choose to love."

 _Whom you choose to love._ Nicola just continues to be ripped from a storybook, doesn't he? Where did he get this picture in his head, that true love is real for people like them, that in the world they live in it matters even slightly if you're _happy_ at the end of the day? Why does he think that's something Dick can even consider thinking about?

But nonetheless, Dick finds himself telling the truth.

"Bruce didn't kick me out for liking guys," he says, quick like an admission, and Nicola's eyebrows go up. "He did kick me out, but that's a separate issue, with...many levels I can't get into. But he's not what everyone's saying. He doesn't care about the gender of— _whom I choose to love."_

Nicola hums thoughtfully, and nods, accepting his answer as truth. Dick lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding; someone believes him. Someone who doesn't know the truth, who doesn't know Dick as anything other than Roman's, believes him when he says his father loves him, and that Roman's a liar.

Dick smiles, and Nicola smiles back.

They keep walking.

When they start approaching the end of the museum, Nicola stops him with a light grip around his wrist. Dick tenses, eyes narrowed as he looks over to the other man.

"What are you doing?" he grits out. Not this again. Nicola can't possibly be this stupid _again._

"You kissed me back," Nicola says firmly. "Two nights ago, at Falcone's." He looks like he's gearing himself up for a fight, and Dick wants to scream.

"Please don't do this," Dick says tiredly. "Please just—Christ, can we just finish looking at everything and then go our separate ways? This has been a stressful twenty-four hours, and I can't...I can't add to it. I can't make this be one more thing. I can't do it. I..."

Nicola shushes him, something terribly sad in his eyes, in the grimace twisting his mouth. "I'm sorry this is your life, Dick," he says. "I know that means nothing, and does nothing. But I am sorry nonetheless."

Something about those words creates a deep _longing_ inside of Dick, longing for comfort, for his family, to be held, to be taken care of. Longs for _caring,_ in its simplest form.

So maybe that's why he doesn't move away when Nicola's hand lifts, thumb stroking delicately over Dick's bruised cheek. Why he doesn't jerk back when Nicola leans in and kisses his cheek, too, soft and lingering. Why he holds still as Nicola's lips brush over his skin towards his lips, and kisses him for real.

It makes Dick think of his first kiss with Babs, way back in the day. They'd been sitting together high above Gotham, watching the sun rise after staying out all night. It was peaceful, and they were both content, and she'd simply looked far too beautiful for him to not lean over and kiss her. Not hard, not frantic or forced, but just a gentle, meaningful little thing.

And Dick doesn't pull away.

Nicola's other hand rises, settling lightly on Dick's hip, nudging them closer together. It's a movement that would be easy to stop, or break away from. There's no demand here, no one trying to _take._ Nicola is asking.

And God help him, Dick says yes.

Dick steps forward into the motion, his own hands lifting to cup the sides of Nicola's neck, tilting the other man's head just a little and allowing the kiss to deepen. Nicola makes a soft, pleased noise at that, his fingers tightening just a little on Dick's hip, and nips questioningly at Dick's bottom lip. It makes Dick smile against his mouth, and he nods a little, not pulling away even slightly, their nose bumping together.

Nicola's tongue is tentative, but Dick doesn't mind, in fact he almost feels like crying for how amazing that is. _Tentative. Cautious. Hesitant._ When was the last time someone was hesitant about sticking their tongue in Dick's mouth? He honestly can't remember.

All he can think of is Roman.

In the end, Nicola is the one who breaks the kiss. Dick doesn't know why, not until he sees the worried furrow between the other man's eyes, and Nicola's thumb swipes over his cheek, drawing attention to the fact that Dick is, apparently, actually crying.

"Shit," Dick mutters. He tries to step back, and Nicola lets him. "Shit, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry," Nicola says as well, and looks like he means it. "Are you...?"

"Nicola you can't tell anyone about this," Dick says, and Nicola blinks at the sudden change.

"I...of course—"

"No, I mean it." Something cold has settled in Dick's stomach as realization sets in. This wasn't a three-second kiss Dick ended by kneeing someone in the balls. This was a _kiss,_ and Roman would... "I don't want to manipulate you here, but the truth is that if you tell anyone, and it gets back to Roman, he will _hurt me,_ do you understand?"

Resolve steels Nicola's gaze, his back straightening, and a small amount of relief sweeps through Dick's body. "I will keep this to myself, I promise."

Dick nods sharply and moves around him, walking towards the exit. Shit, he's such an idiot. An emotional fucking _idiot._ He needs to get ahold of himself. That was stupid. That was so fucking stupid. Why did Dick...

"Dick," Nicola calls, and Dick halts, glancing back.

Nicola offers him a sad smile. "You have my word on that. You also have my word that if you ever need help—you'll have it from me."

Dick knows he means it. And it's the absolute opposite of the comfort Nicola means it to be; caring in this world is a dangerous thing, and the other man already has far too much of it.

And there's not a chance in hell Dick can put his faith in anyone from this world, not even one who seems as genuine as Nicola does.

"Thank you," Dick says nonetheless, and then he walks away, trying to push all that just happened out of his head.

What's one more thing, after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my docs this chapter was titled "Gay Panic and Feels" lol
> 
> The only way you're allowed to picture Kon-El is his badass 90s punk version, not the himbo version where his costume is just a t-shirt 😁
> 
> Lmk your thoughts! And see you next week 👍🏻
> 
> Edit: Please check out this [portrait of Nicola](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/post/624398123789418496/everyone-please-check-out-this-lovely-portrait-of) created by the amazing Mori!


	12. Chapter 12

When Dick was twelve, he got kidnapped.

It wasn't the first time, and would end up not being the last, but it's the one that sticks in Dick's head the most.

His captors were professionals, that was clear from the beginning. Calm under pressure, keeping to their set timetable, not overly cruel with him but not giving him any wiggle room, either. They made their demands to Bruce, and kept Dick's hands tied, telling him not to move from the chair they shoved him into. There was always at least one of them with their attention dedicated to watching him, gun in hand.

These weren't the first professionals Dick had gone up against, nor the first to even be responsible for kidnapping him. But the reason he remembers them so clearly, the reason this incident will always be the one to pop into his head when people ask about the general subject, is because they got...handsy.

Nothing overly obvious, nothing close to assault. But there were touches that lingered, individuals who stood closer than necessary, dark looks that made shivers run up Dick's spine. He remembers it all so clearly, and how for weeks afterwards he couldn't get it out of his head, confused as to why it was bothering him so much. It's not like they did anything to him. What's a few uncomfortable touches, in the grand scheme of things?

It wasn't until he was older that he understood why it affected him so much—just because they didn't do anything didn't mean they didn't _want_ to, and maybe if Batman hadn't arrived when he had, the touches could've escalated. Those lingering hands and heavy looks could've become far more up close and personal than they already were.

And it's reasonable that something like that would bother a twelve-year-old, even one who spends his nights as the hero Robin.

That realization didn't come until he was seventeen, and in the _loving care_ of Roman Sionis. Then he understood, because then he knew what it felt like when lingering touches and dark looks reached the next step.

Every once in a while, these days, that kidnapping pops into his head. Usually in moments like this, with Roman's hand high up on his naked thigh, thumb rubbing absently at the soft skin. Dick's keeping himself still, wanting that lingering touch to remain in this stage, to not move forward to more.

He knows it will, that it always will. But the longer he can go without it, the better.

He returned from his day out into the city a few hours ago, just in time for dinner. Roman had been smug the entire time, still riding high from the success of his plot, and then delighted in showing Dick the viral video of Tim coming out.

_(My fault, my fault, my fault, myfaultmyfaultmyfaultmyfault—)_

After dinner Roman had work to do, leaving Dick with some blessed down time (which he spent rewatching Tim's video, so very proud of his little brother, desperately wishing he could be there for him) before Roman's return, and the subsequent instruction to strip.

He's barely touched him so far, though. Not that Dick's anywhere close to complaining. Roman emerged from his meeting with a slight frown on his face and something thoughtful in his gaze, and so far has just sat on the couch vaguely watching TV, Dick against his side, large hand on Dick's thigh.

Dick feels strung tight, too tense, too on edge. He can still feel Nicola's lips against his, the gentle hand on his hip, the warmth in the press of his body. And this in-between with Roman isn't helping, waiting for the man to act, because it's only a question of _when,_ not _if._ He wishes Roman would just get it over with, put him out of his misery. It would make this all a bit easier to bear.

Joseph and Lou didn't tell Roman they left Dick unattended for a little while, and Dick didn't say a word either. If Nicola keeps his promise, then Dick might just get away with this. He doesn't know why he feels nauseous about it all.

His mind is all turned around, switching rapidly between what happened in the museum and Roman's hand on his thigh, the lingering touch. To Tim's coming out video. To how he's going to face his family the next time he sees them. To how he wants to push off Roman doing something for as long as possible. To _fuck, Roman, would you just get it over with—_

To fighting the urge to scream, because his own thoughts are contradicting each other.

Roman's hand tightens on his thigh, and Dick briefly closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and stands when Roman nudges him off the couch, standing as well.

Roman presses close, the fabric of his suit tingling as it brushes over Dick's bare skin. He wraps an arm around Dick's lower back, head lowering to press a kiss to Dick's neck, which quickly turns painful when he bites down, a sharp nip at his skin. Not enough to draw blood, but definitely enough to bruise. He does it again and again, and Dick holds still, grimacing as his neck throbs under the attention.

"Come on, sweetheart," Roman murmurs after a little while, leading Dick towards the bedroom. Dick follows pliantly. "Lie down. I want to show you something I had installed."

Dick frowns, not liking the sound of that, but does as he's told, settling on the bed. In the past, being completely naked and lying down in front of a fully clothed Roman made him feel vulnerable, exposed. Now it's too frequent an occurrence for it to truly have an affect anymore.

Roman crawls on top of him, every inch a predator, gaze dark as he looks Dick over like he's deciding the best way to devour him. Dick lies still, wary, and follows Roman's actions with his eyes when the man reaches past Dick towards the headboard. His arm retracts, Dick sees a flash of black in his hand, and then Roman's hand goes towards his neck. There's a click, and Roman is smirking above him, pleased.

Dick twists his head, trying to get a look at whatever it is, and his lips press into a thin line when he realizes, something cold settling in his gut. Roman's smirk only grows in response.

"What, you don't like it? I think it's a good look on you."

This isn't the first time Roman has put a leash on him, but it _is_ the first time that leash was actually attached to the headboard. His chest tightens with anxiety, feeling trapped.

"And what led to this?" Dick asks tightly.

Roman cocks an eyebrow at him. "Questioning my decisions, Richard?"

Dick bites back the urge to say that he wasn't _questioning his decisions,_ he was just asking a question, but there's no point in arguing the point. It won't do anything except maybe irritate Roman, and Dick would really rather not, if he can avoid it.

So instead, Dick murmurs, "No, Roman."

"Good boy."

Roman gets off of him, going over to his closet, and Dick tests his range of movement while Roman rummages around. He has about a foot of slack in the leash before being pulled up short, and Roman wasn't kidding when he said he had this _installed;_ it's screwed into the headboard with a metal plate, and Dick knows from experience that the headboard is extremely solid and won't be going anywhere even if Dick yanks very hard on the leash. With this thing on, he really is stuck.

Of course, he could probably unlatch it from his collar himself, unless Roman decided to be particularly bastardly today and made the clasp something complicated. But even if Dick _could,_ it's not like he _would—_ he wouldn't risk Roman's wrath for something as small as briefly having a bit more movement.

When Roman returns, he's holding a few different objects, which he drops at the end of the bed before approaching Dick with the remaining thing in his hand, red nylon rope. Dick raises his hands without being asked, and Roman offers him a smile before tying his hands to the headboard, one to each corner.

Dick tests his bindings automatically as Roman backs away again, and finds them just as solid as he expected them to be; Roman has many years' experience tying people up, and he's always been skilled at it. It's not easy to trap Dick, but this is something he won't be able to get out of without help.

The vigilante part of him hates that with a burning passion. Another part of him can't help the thrill that curls in his stomach.

Roman approaches again with another item, instructing, "Bend your legs, sweetheart."

Dick does as he's told, bringing his knees up to his stomach, and Roman kneels on the bed between them. He takes one in his hands and wraps the band he brought over around it, forcing Dick's leg to stay bent over, the length of his calf against his thigh. He repeats the process with Dick's other leg, and Dick flexes his muscles, testing the strength of the bindings.

There's no give, so when Roman shifts his grip to plant Dick's feet flat on the bed, his legs are forced wide and stuck as they were bound, his heels now pressed against his ass.

Again, Roman backs away and returns, this time stepping up to Dick's head again. When Dick sees the blindfold in Roman's hand he has to bite his tongue against the urge to protest; blindfolds are a very touch-and-go thing for him, and usually his acceptance of using them depends on how trustworthy he considers the partner he's with, if he'll willingly give up his sight.

Roman is not, in any way, a partner he trusts. But it's not like he actually has a choice.

Dick goes through a few breathing exercises as the blindfold is wrapped around his head, leaving him in darkness. Roman steps away, and then stops moving, saying nothing, the room falling silent. Dick knows he's doing that because he knows Dick hates being blindfolded, and he's trying to unsettle him.

Roman's a gigantic fucking asshole like that.

"Don't you look gorgeous like this," Roman says after far too long in silence, just when Dick was truly starting to get antsy. "All wrapped up, just for me."

The man walks forward, fingers brushing faintly over Dick's raised knee. "It feels almost _selfish_ of me, though. Keeping this amazing view all to myself. Don't you think?"

Fear flares in Dick's chest. "I—what? Roman..."

Roman chuckles and then climbs onto the bed, settling between Dick's bound, spread legs. His hands stroke Dick's thighs slowly. "I just think there are people who would _love_ to see you like this." A brief pause. "How about Damian?"

A jolt goes through Dick's entire body.

"Wouldn't he like to see what Big Bro gets up to when he's not around?"

 _"Roman—"_ Dick tries, voice strangled.

"You two just seem to have such a _bond,_ is all. I'd hate for him to feel left out of your new life."

"I—Roman, please, don't—"

A slap to the inside of his thigh makes Dick cut off, sucking in a sharp breath. Roman rubs the area, thumb digging in, adding to the throbbing that's growing in that spot.

"I'm sorry, what was that? You call me...?"

Dick doesn't even feel his usual flash of distaste at the correction, too stuck on the horrifying idea of Damian receiving a photo of Dick like this. He can't even imagine what that would mean for them moving forward, how that would change the way Damian sees him. How Dick wouldn't be able to look Damian in the eye, knowing the boy had seen him at his most vulgar.

"Daddy," Dick says, following the correction. "Daddy, please don't."

"No?" Roman says mildly. "Mm, baby, I don’t know. It seems almost _rude_ to keep this to myself, doesn’t it? And since you and the kid are so close, who better to share this piece of yourself with?"

Dick knows what this is. Roman's finally poking at Dick's connection to Damian, trying to get to the root of why Dick reacts so much more strongly to the youngest of his brothers. Dick doesn't want to give Roman this; it's bad enough that the man knows about it, it would be a thousand times worse if he actually _understood._

But weighed against Damian seeing him like _this?_ The idea is nauseating. He'd scream from the rooftops that Damian is his Robin before he allowed that boy anywhere _near_ photos of him in this state.

"I don't know," Dick says slowly, choosing his words very carefully, "Damian really is just a kid, he doesn't need to know the...specifics of my sex life. I would really appreciate it if we could keep all this away from him."

Roman hums thoughtfully. "You sure? I'm curious; the kid's only been hanging around a little over two years—you have trust issues to kingdom come, sweetheart, so how'd you manage to bond so quickly and so intensely?" Dick presses his lips into a thin line, saying nothing, and wishes he could see Roman's expression when the man chuckles quietly. "Ah well, I suppose it doesn't really matter. It's not like it'll influence Damian's opinion when he sees you like this..."

Goddammit. God fucking dammit.

"Right after Damian came to Gotham," Dick says haltingly, wishing he didn't have to share this, "there was a fight, and we thought Bruce was dead. That belief lasted a year."

"When Wayne fucked off on vacation," Roman muses, realizing. "People were talking non-stop about you taking over at Wayne Enterprises for a while. So with Wayne _dead,_ there was you and the kid. That it, then? You took care of him?"

"I was twenty-four," Dick says softly, remembering. "Only a year younger than Bruce had been, when he took me in. Tim left, Cass was in Hong Kong, Jason was...not on speaking terms at the moment. I...it was the pair of us."

"Oh, _I_ see," Roman purrs. He moves forward, bed dipping slightly as he puts his hands on either side of Dick's head, leaning closer. He wishes he could see the man's expression. "It was like he was _yours._ With Wayne gone the kid was lacking in a father figure, and there you were, happy to replace him."

"I didn't replace Bruce," Dick snaps, hands twisting in their bindings. "I would never try to."

"But you filled the role nonetheless, and like a little duckling, he imprinted."

Dick can't lie; he did start viewing Damian as his kid. How could he not, when it was the pair of them against the rest of the world? _Literally,_ sometimes, as Batman and Robin. He went to Damian's parent-teacher conferences and held him when he had nightmares even if he was too proud to ask for help. He bought him art supplies when it was clear it was something he had a passion for, and took him to the museums around Gotham. He showed him how to be strong without having to kill. He organized movie nights and took him to the arcade and enforced bedtime. How could he _not_ view Damian as his kid, when he filled the role of a parent?

He can't even begin to describe how torn apart he felt when Bruce came back. Because on the one hand, he was so unbelievably _relieved._ His father was back, not dead, he got to see Bruce again after grieving for so long, after wishing it could happen. He didn't have to run Wayne Enterprises anymore, nor wear the cowl that was far too heavy on his shoulders.

But it meant giving Damian up. Moving an entire city away from his kid. Leaving Damian in the care of a man who didn't know him, and didn't have the patience to try.

He'd wanted to fight it, to take Damian with him. But he'd felt like he didn't have the right. Bruce was Damian's father, not Dick. They deserved to be with each other, to have that bond. Who was Dick to take that away from them?

"I suppose so," Dick says, voice shaking just a little.

"Oh, sweetheart," Roman says, words dripping with false sympathy. A thumb strokes over his bruised cheek, a mockery of Nicola's gentle touch earlier. "That's almost _sad."_

"Please don't show Damian," Dick replies, barely more than a whisper.

Roman laughs softly, and draws back, once more settling between Dick's spread legs. His weight shifts and then returns to normal, and Dick hears the click of a cap, then a faint squirting sound. Dick does his best to relax, knowing what comes next, and exhales in time with the pair of fingers pushing inside of him.

He's not surprised in the slightest that Roman is skipping straight to two; definitely isn't the first time, definitely won't be the last.

"I wonder," Roman murmurs as he scissors his fingers, "what the kid would think. His _dad—"_ Dick flinches, "—tied to Black Mask's bed, legs spread like a slut, taking whatever I want to give you."

Dick doesn't reply, closing his eyes behind the blindfold, breathing evenly. He hopes that whatever Roman's game is, it doesn't end with a photo of this being sent to Damian. He can handle whatever Roman decides to throw at him tonight, as long as that's not the end result.

"He'd be disgusted, don't you think?" Roman continues as he inserts a third finger. "Looking at you now, my good little whore. I've had the misfortune to meet the brat; he's got pretty clear views, doesn't he? Not one to wait for explanations, just makes his decision clear and doesn't ever really move from it. That sound about right?

"So if he saw you like this," Roman crooks his fingers, searching, and it pulls a moan out of Dick when they drag across his prostate, _"moaning_ for me, how do you think he would look at you? Definitely not the same, the respect would be gone. You wouldn't be Nightwing to him anymore, not really. Just Black Mask's slut."

"Please stop," Dick whispers. "Please, just—please..."

He can hear the grin in Roman's voice when he indulgently replies, "Alright, sweetheart. Since you beg so prettily."

Roman withdraws his fingers, and there's the faint rustling of clothes. Dick knows what's supposed to come next, so he's surprised when instead of Roman's cock, something cool and slick is pushed inside of him.

Dick grunts as the object is forced in quickly, wiggling a little in an attempt to make it more comfortable. He hears a quiet laugh from Roman at that, but can't be bothered to worry about how stupid he might look.

A dildo, Dick figures, going off size and shape. He doesn't know why Roman's going with that at the moment, but—

 _"Guh,"_ Dick says, startled, as the dildo starts vibrating, powerful and deep and pressed right up against his prostate. Dick twists, trying to lessen the pressure, but the way his legs are bound gives him no leverage, no way to escape. He's stuck right in place, forced to just take it.

His toes curl against the bed, his head tossing back as a groan works its way out of his throat. Pleasure pools in his gut at the constant stimulation, and the feeling only gets more intense when Roman wraps a hand around his hardening cock, stroking him roughly. He starts thrusting up into the grip, feeling his orgasm approaching and now desperate to reach it.

And then he mewls pathetically when Roman's fingers clamp down tightly around the base of his cock.

 _"No,_ please, _Daddy—"_

"Hush, sweetheart," Roman replies, amusement threaded through his voice. "Daddy's trying to enjoy the view."

He lets go, pulling away briefly before he starts stroking Dick again. Dick writhes on the bed, legs flexing in their bindings, desperate to be free, hands twisting in the ropes keeping him trapped to the headboard. The constant buzzing is almost painful in its intensity against his prostate, deep inside of him with too little preparation for something this large.

Once again, Dick comes right up to the edge, almost there, and then Roman's hand clamps down again, stopping the orgasm in its tracks.

Dick lets out a sob, twisting in his restraints. Tears leak from his eyes, wetting the blindfold.

_"Please—"_

"Christ, look at you," Roman says, and Dick is too in his own head to decipher the tone of the man's voice. "Just look at you."

His hand lets go again, but this time it returns immediately, sliding something hard and cold up the length of Dick's cock, fitting snugly into place around his cock and balls. Dick lets out a moan of displeasure, hips thrusting upwards as if that could dislodge the cock ring.

"See you soon, Richard," Roman says, and Dick feels the bed lift as Roman climbs off.

Dick jerks, panicked. "What? _Roman,_ n—" He cuts off with a cry as the vibrating of the dildo suddenly picks up.

Faintly, Dick hears the bedroom door click shut, but he can barely acknowledge it, too caught up in the almost overwhelming sensations. He strains against the bindings keeping his legs bent, but they don't budge.

He knows it can't be hours, but it feels like that's how long he's left there, his entire body on fire and unable to make it stop. Tears are streaming freely, his wrists throbbing with sharp pain from how long he's been yanking, his neck rubbed raw from the chafing against the collar as his head thrashes back and forth. His cock pulses with need, so hard it actually hurts, and the vibration against his prostate has long gone past pleasurable and into painful, making him _desperate_ for it to be over, desperate to come.

That is, of course, when Roman returns.

He doesn't hear him at first, doesn't even notice the bed dip under the added weight, but he _does_ become aware of him when Roman takes ahold of the base of the dildo, twisting it roughly.

Dick sobs again, severely overstimulated. "Roman, stop, please, please, please, please—"

"Isn't that a lovely sound," Roman purrs. "But again, I'm going to have to correct you, sweetheart."

_"Daddy, please—"_

"That's better," Roman says, something rough in his voice, and then the dildo is being yanked out of Dick's ass. The sudden loss of stimulation after so very long leaves Dick lightheaded and dizzy, but it's only a few seconds before Roman is shoving himself inside, fucking roughly in and out of Dick's ass.

"You know the sounds you were making?" Roman growls in his ear, biting sharply at his earlobe. "Like a fucking porno. People would line up around the block to hear you, Richard. Would pay thousands of dollars for the chance to see you like this, even more if they could _touch_ you. Everything about you, _fuck—"_

Dick pants wetly, unable to speak, unable to do anything but lie there and take it. His body is tingling, pins and needles, and rocks back and forth on the bed under the force of Roman's thrusts.

Roman yanks off the cock ring, and Dick shouts at the pain as it pulls harshly on his balls. But with it still comes a gigantic swell of relief, the blockage gone, and now if Roman would just touch his fucking cock for real this could be over—

"You come on my cock or not at all," Roman breathes against the shell of his ear, and Dick moans, straining up against him.

_"Please—"_

"Come on, Richard," Roman growls. "Come for me. Come for Daddy."

Dick blacks out when his orgasm hits, Roman still thrusting inside of him as he slides into unconsciousness.

When he comes to, his legs have been freed from their bindings, lying flat against the bed and burning slightly from the strain of holding that position for an extended period of time. One of his hands is free, too, limp against the pillow, and Roman is currently in the process of untying his second hand.

Dick looks up at him blankly, feeling extremely out of it, floating. Roman's gaze flicks over to him, meeting his eyes, before sliding over the length of his body, a smirk pulling at his lips. Dick only blinks slowly in response, too exhausted and spaced out to have a real reaction.

"Damian," Dick slurs, the thought popping suddenly into his head. It's important. Something about Damian...The photos!

Roman cocks an eyebrow at him, amused. "Should I be concerned that the first person you call out for post-sex is your baby brother?"

"The pictures," Dick says, not acknowledging that. His voice still sounds blurry, slurred, not as clear as he'd like it. "Don't...please. Don't show him. Don't send it."

Roman rolls his eyes, leaning over to unhook the leash from his collar, and says, "Relax. The brat isn't going to see you like this. As long as you behave."

Dick doesn't have the presence of mind to be worried about that caveat, too relieved that at least for now, Roman won't be exposing Damian to this side of things.

"Now get up," Roman says, tugging lightly at his collar. "Time for a fucking shower."

* * *

A few blocks away, Jason is in the Wayne Foundation penthouse apartment, cooking dinner for himself, his siblings, Stephanie, and Kon-El. Music plays loudly in the background, accompanied by laughter as Tim and Steph attempt to teach Kon and Cass some ridiculous dance they learned on the internet, with acerbic comments from Damian sprinkled in even as a smile peeks at the corners of the boy's expression.

It's a good night, Jason thinks. Missing an extremely crucial puzzle piece, but a good night nonetheless.

When his phone buzzes, he briefly puts down the stirrer in his hand and picks the device up; a text message from an unknown number. Opening the message, he sees there's a video attachment.

And then he freezes at the image backdropping the _Play_ button, the image of his big brother in a position he would never want anyone to see.

So Jason erases the message without opening the video, deletes any traces of it from his phone _(wishing he could do the same with his brain),_ and then picks his stirrer back up, trying to not imagine the hell Dick is currently going through, just a few streets away.

* * *

Dick's eyelids droop, body leaning against the wall of the shower in an attempt to keep himself upright. A couple feet away, Roman hums some sort of tune to himself as he rubs a loofah over his body, the sudsy soap running slowly down his legs and towards the drain. Dick watches the progression absently, attention caught by that small detail for some reason.

"Do my back," Roman instructs, and Dick startles, stepping forward to take the loofah and do as he's told. Roman watches him as he does it, head twisted over his shoulder, something Dick can't read in his expression.

"I'm taking you to a gun range tomorrow," Roman tells him.

Dick's brow furrows, just a little, but he doesn't have the energy to question it, to even debate whether or not he _should_ question it. His legs are still unsteady, barely wanting to hold his weight, the rest of his body perfectly happy to let him collapse to the floor as well.

"Alright," Dick agrees, and passes the loofah back as he finishes.

Roman rinses himself off and then pulls Dick close, leaning the younger man under the spray of water. Dick tilts his head back pliantly, letting the water soak his hair and run down his body, pushing thoughts of pouring rooftops out of his head. He accepts the loofah again when Roman hands it to him, absently washing himself, absently taking note of the odd way Roman is watching him.

"Richard."

Dick jerks, head snapping up at the sharp call of his name. Had he fallen asleep standing up? Christ.

"Sorry," Dick mumbles, and then steps into the water to rinse off, letting it wash away the filth of the day.

 _If only it was that easy to get rid of the filth in me,_ Dick thinks wryly.

"Did you know," Roman says, leaning against the opposite wall of the shower, arms folded loosely over his chest, "that my father's name was Richard as well?"

Once, maybe. Dick never met Richard Sionis—the man and his wife died a few years before Dick's introduction to Gotham—but he's sure that he's heard the name before. But it's not like _Richard_ is an uncommon name; they don't all stick in his head.

"No," Dick says instead of pointlessly explaining all of that, turning to face Roman fully, shoulder bracing against one of the walls. He'd really rather go lie down and go to sleep; whatever this conversation is, he'd _really_ like for it to wait until tomorrow, when he feels more human. "It's a popular name, though."

Roman hums his agreement, still with that odd look on his face. He's seemed a little off ever since that meeting of his earlier, and though fucking with Dick (and _fucking Dick)_ had seemed to make him feel more lively, he now seems to have dipped back into that strange mood of his.

"He was a bastard, that's for sure," Roman muses. "Never a kind word, nor a kind action. Liked using his fists to talk to his family, instead of his words. He was a good businessman, I can give him that, but utterly self-absorbed and hateful."

"Is that why you killed him?" Dick asks quietly.

Roman looks at him, eyebrows raised. There's nothing particularly humorous or amused in his expression, but he doesn't look upset, either. Kind of... _blank._ Calm, in a way Dick isn't used to. Calm in a way that promises more.

"No, actually," Roman says, and Dick's actually surprised that Roman is explaining. "Though that would be a good enough reason, in my book. Richard and Abigail Sionis certainly never should've had a kid. No, I actually killed them because of love."

Dick snorts before he can stop himself. "You just loved your abusive parents so much that you had to kill them?"

Roman narrows his eyes dangerously. Dick swallows. "No," Roman says coolly.

"Sorry," Dick whispers, because he knows he should.

Roman inclines his head, accepting the apology.

He's silent for a long time. Long enough that Dick figures that's the end of it, Roman isn't going to tell him any more. The patter of the shower spray against the ground is loud in Dick's ears, somewhere between extremely anxiety producing and actually kind of calming.

"There was a girl," Roman says eventually. "Circe. She was a model that worked for my family's company. Middle class, no wealth to her name. She was stunning, though. Beautiful, sharp as a whip, such a kind heart. I fell for her instantly. My parents didn't approve, because she wasn't _rich_ like them. Said I needed to find a _suitable_ partner, and she didn't fit the bill."

"So you killed them to be with her?"

That's almost...romantic, in a really fucked up way. In an extremely twisted, psychotic way.

"It was certainly the catalyst," Roman agrees, and a wry smile tilts his lips. "I had twenty-five years' worth of grievances to go with it, of course, but that's what made me actually do it."

"So what happened?" Dick asks, curious despite himself. _Where is she now?_

"We got engaged," Roman says. "No one in our way anymore. But I got put in charge of my family's company, and at the time I didn't have a head for it. I pushed an unfinished product towards the market, some people got hurt, it was a whole thing." He waves a hand dismissively through the air, like the injuries others sustained because of him don't matter in the slightest.

"But because people were hurt because of a rash decision I made, Circe broke things off. In front of my staff, too."

There's something dark edging into Roman's voice, and suddenly Dick wants him to stop, doesn't want him to share what happened to Circe, because it is surely nothing good. This doesn't end happily ever after. Not even close.

"So I forced her to put on a mask laced with the toxic product I put out, which burned her skin and permanently disfigured her." A cruel smile curves his lips, gaze faraway and pleased. "No more modeling career for Miss Circe Danes."

Dick feels sick, nausea rolling in his gut. How could he— _how_ could he—?

"How could you do that to someone you claimed to love?" Dick asks hoarsely. "You...you killed your parents to be with this girl, and then she embarrassed you so you scarred her for life?"

Roman smiles at him, wide and real and so very _cold._ "Richard," he tuts, "if that surprises you, you haven't been paying attention."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Roman Sionis' father's name was Charles, but in 2016 it was retconned to Richard. Usually I'm not a fan of using pointless retcons, but come on this was too good an opportunity to pass up! Also Roman's mother has never been given a name in comics, so I made up "Abigail" for the purposes of this story. And Circe never had a last name, so "Danes" was also a me addition.
> 
> Edit: Everybody stop what you're doing and go check out [this amazing fanart](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath/status/1261121953043222528?s=21) that was created for this chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A WARNING! Something kinda fucked up happens in this chapter, and I figure if you guys have made it this far you're pretty ok with fucked up, but in my opinion it's...particularly dark. If such a warning concerns you, please send me a message on [tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath), or discord (WithTheKeyIsKing#0874) and I can let you know what happens.
> 
> Ok, now you may go on 😁

When Dick worked for the Bludhaven Police Force, he got used to having a gun on his person.

He wore it with distaste, carried it like a thousand-pound weight. He was never not perfectly aware of where his handgun was, how many bullets in the mag, if there was one in the chamber, if the safety was on, when the last time he cleaned it was.

But the thing is, is that Dick's never personally had a problem with guns. Guns aren't what killed his parents, aren't anything other than another deadly tool. They do it a lot more quickly than, say, a knife, definitely faster than the electricity in his escrima sticks, but they're still just another weapon.

But when you're raised by a man whose entire trauma hinges around what a gun did to his family, and has spent years hating _(being afraid of)_ them, it tends to creep into the way you view them. It made Dick paranoid about having the weapon on his person, paranoid about even having it in his apartment. He was always the last to draw in the field, always the one dragging his feet when it came to going to the gun range with the others to practice.

It felt like betrayal, like he was going against everything Bruce taught him. Which was ridiculous. After all, Bruce was the one who taught him to shoot, when he was just eleven. Said it was necessary to understand evil to fight it. Said they were just tools and nothing to be afraid of, despite the fact that everything else about Bruce screamed the exact opposite of that statement.

Dick's a good shot. Great, even. One of the highest scores at his precinct, back then. Also one of the only officers in the entire city to never fire his weapon in the field.

It's almost funny to think about. How—

"Are you even listening to me?"

Dick startles, glancing over to Roman. The older man looks irritated, and Dick glances around, trying to figure out how long he zoned out. They're still in the car, and still driving, so it couldn't have been too long. This has been happening sometimes, as of late. Zoning out when he's anxious. Not a habit that should continue in the world he lives in, with the _man_ he lives with.

"Sorry," Dick mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He's exhausted; he didn't sleep overly well the night before after everything, and then he had an early gymnastics class back in Blud, and then almost immediately after his return to Gotham Roman was packing him back into the car, apparently following through on his statement last night.

A gun range. A fucking gun range.

When they went to dinner with Falcone and Maroni, and Roman said he'd have to take Dick shooting sometime, Dick never thought he'd actually follow through on it. Why would he? It's not like there are a lot of occasions in Dick's current life that have any necessity for such a skill, nor _any_ of his skills, for that matter.

And, frankly, Dick doesn't like the idea of going to a gun range with Roman. Roman's enough of a threat to Dick when he's not armed; willingly going somewhere where Roman would have easy access to countless firearms? Yeah, Dick's not crazy about that idea.

"Yeah, I bet," Roman snorts, but doesn't seem interested in further reprimanding Dick, so he'll take that as a win. "I was saying..." He frowns at Dick, and then waves a hand dismissively. "Ah, nevermind. We're almost there."

Dick frowns back at him—Roman's not one to take things back—but doesn't question it, letting silence fall around them.

Sure enough they arrive soon, and Dick exits the car with some trepidation. Roman leads the way inside, followed by Dick and then one of the guards that came with them.

Dick hangs back once they're inside, watching Roman talk to the man at the counter. They seem familiar with each other, the man with that cautious respectfulness that Dick's used to seeing around people who know what Roman really is.

The conversation isn't overly long, Roman gesturing Dick forward. "Richard, this is Robert. Robert, Richard."

Robert offers Dick his hand to shake. "Nice to meet you, Richard. And call me Bob."

Dick's almost amused; it seems he isn't the only one that gets called by their full name simply because Roman has decided he doesn't like the nickname.

"Dick," he says in response, smiling a little, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Roman roll his eyes.

"Lanes are back that way," Roman says, gesturing towards a hallway off the side of the main room. "Robert's already got a station ready for you, go familiarize yourself with the weaponry. I'll be there in a moment."

Dick nods and does as he's told, not bothering to ask how Bob already has this set up for them; Dick wouldn't be surprised if Roman called ahead with exact instructions of what he wanted to see, and maybe even keep everyone else out for the day. Roman's certainly got the fear factor to make that happen, if not just the money.

It's quiet when Dick steps into the indoor gun range, all of the ten—no, fifteen—stalls empty of people. The set up is very similar to the one back in Dick's old precinct, and he walks forward slowly, cataloging exits and distance and the wall of firearms, locked behind a metal grate.

About halfway down the line is what Dick assumes is the station set up for him; the stall has five separate guns laid out on the counter, magazines separated but lined up and ready for reloading. Dick recognizes them, pursing his lips as he takes them in.

It's almost ridiculous; what is the point to this? Why does Roman want to know how well he can shoot a handgun, a machine gun, a freaking _sniper rifle_ —besides, looking at the distance to the target, this range isn't set up for the caliber of sniper rifle currently sitting in front of him. It could still work, of course, but there's no point to it. It's a waste of a good weapon, and would just blast the target apart at this distance.

Well, whatever. It's not like it's up to him anyway.

He starts reloading the guns one by one, checking the chamber, making sure the safety is steady, examining the pressure of each trigger. He's almost done with all of that when he hears Roman approaching.

"What do you think?" Roman asks as he steps up beside Dick, looking the guns over himself, far less critically than Dick has been.

"Why are we here, Roman?" Dick asks.

Roman glances at him, one side of his mouth quirking up into a smile. "I told you already, sweetheart. I want to see if you can apply any of that knowledge in that head of yours. So go on, show Daddy how you shoot."

Dick's lips press into a thin line but he doesn't protest, instead selecting the first handgun. It's the Hellcat, the same gun that got him into this mess to begin with. If he'd just kept his mouth shut, just handled Maroni's condescension without a word...

He picks up the waiting earmuffs and safety glasses, then raises the gun, adjusting his stance as he does so.

It's uncomfortable, a buzz settling right under his skin, and he rolls his shoulders to try to loosen them up, to ignore the tension that's inched into every part of his body. It feels _wrong,_ holding a gun with the intention to pull the trigger. It's only a paper target he's aiming at but still Dick feels it, feels the unbelievably strong urge to shoot out the magazine and chuck the weapon far away from himself.

It's just a tool. A tool Dick has held countless times in the past. A tool he has aimed at countless paper targets, and followed through on pulling the trigger. Just a tool, like a batarang or a sword or his escrima sticks. It's no different, in the right hands. His are the right hands.

So why is this so fucking _hard?_

"You doing alright there, Richard?" Roman asks, sounding amused. He's leaning against the barrier that separates his stall from the next, arms folded loosely over his chest. "You seem a little... _tense."_

"I'm fine," Dick grits back. Christ, why isn't he pulling the trigger? It's a paper target! The range is empty save him and Roman!

Roman hums. "That so? Can't say I've seen _Nightwing_ freeze up before, not in top shape, not with a weapon in his hands. So what gives? You afraid of guns?"

"I'm not," Dick disagrees, and he's being honest. He's never been afraid of guns, any more than he would be of any other weapon pointed at him. Guns are faster for sure, have higher mortality rates than stabbings, but that's an easy adjustment to make in the field. You catalogue the threat, but you don't let it overtake you. There's no reason to let it overtake you.

Dick is not afraid. But he can't move.

"Interesting," Roman says, cocking his head. "So, that _thing_ Wayne has about guns...how'd that impact the way he raised you? Trained you?"

Dick scoffs, gaze cutting over to the older man. "Are you trying to _psychoanalyze_ me? Seriously?"

Roman shrugs a shoulder. "If the shoe fits, sweetheart. All I'm saying is you're in unbelievably safe conditions right now, not a bystander in sight, even got ear and eye protection on, and yet you're aiming at a target and not doing a thing about it. After I _told you to do it."_

Dick goes rigid, pulse speeding up. His finger curves over the trigger, but he doesn't squeeze. Why the fuck isn't he squeezing?

"So," Roman continues, easygoing, "the only thing I can think of is that he fucked you up in the head. Well," he amends, "more than we already knew about, that is. His fear got you so in your own head that you can't even shoot a _paper target?"_

"I've done this before," Dick contradicts. "I passed my firearms safety course. I had some of the best scores in my academy graduating class _and_ in the precinct I was assigned to. This is _nothing,_ a walk in the park. I can shoot a fucking paper target."

_I can shoot a fucking paper target. Come on, Grayson, you can do this. Just pull the trigger. Fuck, what's wrong with you?_

"Then do it," Roman says simply.

Dick doesn't move.

Roman sighs sharply, starting to get irritated. He straightens, stepping forward and then pressing himself up against Dick's back, hands landing possessively on Dick's hips, using the grip to better line them up together.

"Listen to me," Roman murmurs against the shell of his ear. "Either you do as you're told right now and shoot, or I strip you and fuck you with that gun."

Dick takes a slow breath in, and lets it out. He can do this. He's done it before. It's just a tool, one he's never been afraid of. _Bruce_ is the one who has a thing about it. This is fine. It's a paper target.

He re-aims, breathes, and pulls the trigger once, twice, three times, four, five. There, almost half the magazine. Good enough.

"Keep going," Roman growls as Dick begins to lower the gun, grip tight on his hips, and Dick freezes, swallowing. "I don't know what this is, but we'll stay here as long as it takes to get you over it. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Daddy," Dick whispers, and aims again. He fires once, twice, three times, four, five, six— _done._

He lowers his arms quickly, flicking on the safety on instinct, despite there being no more bullets in the magazine. His hand is completely steady when he sets the gun down on the counter.

Roman looks past him, squinting at the target, examining Dick's shots. Dick wasn't kidding about being a good shot; the shots are in solid clusters over the heart and head. A couple went a little wide as Dick adjusted to shooting a gun after so long—he'll count them as his practice shots—but otherwise, this is an excellent example of the fact that Dick _can_ use the knowledge in his head.

"Satisfied?" Dick asks.

"No," Roman says immediately. He pushes the button on the side of the stall that calls the target towards them, and steps away from Dick to remove it, immediately placing a fresh one in its place, then sending it back down the lane. "There's a second mag; put it in, and do it again."

Dick wants to argue, but he doesn't dare.

Roman presses against him again, molding his body to the best position to not be hit by the recoil but still infuriatingly close, and Dick does it again, aiming and pulling the trigger again and again, a rushing in his ears.

Roman calls the target to them, and Dick's vision blurs. Suddenly the paper target isn't a paper target anymore, suddenly the target rushing towards them is Blockbuster—

Dick can't breathe, can't think, frozen in place. He knows it's not real, Roland Desmond is dead, it's been four years, but it's like he's there again, that awful decision, that awful night, that awful—that—that—

Dick's head cracks to the side with a slap, and the gun range comes back into focus around him, dead silent save his own heavy breathing. Roman is in front of him, grabbing his chin, yanking his face up to look him in the eye. There's something stony in his expression, but Dick can barely comprehend it, staring past him, desperately seeking out the target.

It's just a paper target. Never been anything more than a paper target.

Roman shakes his chin roughly in his hand, pulling his attention back to the older man.

"What," Roman says coolly, "was _that?"_

Dick really, really, _really_ wants Roman to stop touching him right now. No, he _needs_ Roman to let go, before his skin peels off, before his heart beats its way out of his chest cavity.

"Can you let go of me?" Dick asks hoarsely. "Can you—Roman, let go."

Roman's eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"

His stomach rolls, and he's never been more grateful for the urge to vomit before. "If you don't let go, I'm going to throw up all over you."

Roman jerks back immediately, just in time for Dick to double over, vomiting. He stays bent over for a little while, hand braced on his knees, and starts to feel better. It was always like that when he was a kid; as soon as he threw up, it's like his body would start to pull itself back together. He already feels a million times better than he did fifteen seconds ago.

This time, he's sure it's more _"I need to be okay so brain you're gonna make me okay"_ than anything else, but hey he doesn't hate on anyone else's shitty coping mechanisms, they don't get to hate on his.

"Okay," Dick says as he straightens back up. "Okay. Which gun next?"

Roman looks at him like he's insane. "What the _fuck,_ Richard?"

"Maybe Bruce rubbed off on me more than I thought," Dick says _(lies)_ easily. "I think I just had a bit of a reaction to pulling the trigger. Brief hallucination, thought there was a real person. I also didn't get a lot of sleep last night, so pair that with unresolved issues you apparently get a panic attack. Who knew?"

Roman still looks slightly disturbed, but he's also been given an answer he understands, so the _I-might-need-to-throw-him-in-the-looney-bin_ look has faded.

"Are you going to do that again?" Roman asks. "Because I don't think I want to be alone with someone in the midst of a panic attack while _holding a loaded weapon."_

Yeah, Dick can see how that might be unsettling. But— "I'm fine. It won't happen again. Do you want to leave?"

Roman narrows his eyes again, but it's more analyzing this time. "No. Go again, then." He doesn't step up beside Dick this time, though.

Dick wonders, for a very brief moment, if Roman was afraid. If _he_ made Roman afraid, in a way he never has. The idea's strangely thrilling, and as he picks up the next gun, he can't help but wonder what Roman's face would look like if he turned and aimed at _him_ instead.

He'd never do it, but.

This time, Dick finds it infinitely easier to lift the gun, to aim, to pull the trigger. There's no tension in his shoulders, nor the rest of his body. His even breathing isn't forced. Blockbuster doesn't make another appearance, and Dick finds himself calmer than he has been all day.

He wonders how long it'll last. He's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but the brain is a fickle thing. It doesn't like being ignored. Dick is the king of putting things in boxes and ignoring them, but if this is coming back up...he's going to need to handle it. He's going to need to do _something._ Because where he is now in life, with Roman owning his every action and making his life infinitely difficult, it isn't ideal to have past trauma come up. Not ideal at all.

"What do you want me to do with this?" Dick asks, gesturing towards the sniper rifle. "This really isn't the place to use it effectively. It's dangerous more than anything else."

"Take it apart and put it back together," Roman instructs. By this point he seems calm again, apparently having accepted that the panic attack is in the past. Dick doubts he'll let go of it completely, though; Roman isn't one to let things slide.

Dick nods and follows the instruction. He doesn't really have any experience with sniper rifles, but he knows the mechanics of them, and he once watched Roy build one in front of him. It isn't hard to figure out from there.

"Good," Roman says with satisfaction when Dick's done, looking the rifle over critically. "One last round with that—" he gestures to one of the handguns Dick already fired, "—and then we're finished."

He steps forward again as Dick reloads the gun, once more pressing himself against Dick's back while he raises the gun, apparently having decided that it's safe now.

"Good," Roman says again, as soon as Dick's finished emptying the last magazine. "You're a natural with them, aren't you. Once you removed whatever that stick up your ass was...you look gorgeous doing this, Richard. Nightwing might've been a pain in the world's ass, but I can't deny the skill behind it."

"Thank you," Dick says, unsure what else to say, strangely truthful. After having been nothing more than Roman's plaything, it's almost...nice, to have his work as a hero complimented. Dick was very good at his job, _excellent_ at it, and it feels validating for Roman to acknowledge it.

Roman leads the way back to the car, briefly thanking Bob, and then they're gone, heading back towards the penthouse.

Dick stares out the window, trying to recall what Blockbuster looked like in the gun range, but it's slipping away from him like a bad dream.

In its place comes an uncomfortable realization—the last time he had power over a gun, the last time he had any impact over whether or not a gun would be fired, whether or not a bullet would hit its target, was when Catalina was telling him to get out of the way.

Huh. The brain makes connections at the absolute worst possible times, doesn't it?

Fuck. He had an actual panic attack in front of Roman. _Dammit._

One of Roman's guards is waiting for them when the elevator doors open into the penthouse, stepping forward as soon as he sees them.

"Sir," he greets. "Craig and the others are in the library."

A smile curves Roman's lips, pleased and sharp. Dick feels himself tensing in response to that, knowing nothing good ever comes from it, but doesn't say a word, shrugging his coat off.

"Excellent," Roman purrs. "Good work. Come with me, Richard."

Dick does as he's told, following Roman through the penthouse. They head down the hall towards Roman's office, and then turn into the library instead, Roman striding inside with his head held high.

Dick, meanwhile, comes to a jerking stop in the doorway, breath catching at the sight that lays beyond.

Nicola sits tied to a chair in the center of the room, a table pushed aside to make room for him and the group of men that surround him. He's bloodied and bruised, clearly having taken a beating, but still conscious.

_No, no, no, no—_

"Hello, Mr. Maroni," Roman greets pleasantly. "How are you feeling?"

Nicola coughs wetly in response, gaze clearly trying to focus on Roman. Fuck, how long has he been here? The whole time they were at the gun range, was Nicola here, being beaten to a pulp? And why now? Does Roman know? _Fuck_ how does he know? Nicola seemed so honest when he said he wouldn't tell anyone. There was no one else there, what the fuck happened—

"Roman," Nicola rasps. "My father..."

"Knows he has a stupid fucking son," Roman interrupts, but he sounds amused, not angry. "Smart man, your father. We came to an agreement." He glances over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Dick. "Come here, sweetheart."

Dick can feel his heartbeat in his ears as he cautiously steps forward. Nicola's gaze shifts to him, something Dick can't read sparking in his eyes, before Nicola's eyes slide shut, a breath slowly pushing out of him.

"Now, Nicola, do you have anything to _say_ to Richard, here?" Roman asks. He pulls Dick in front of him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, keeping him tightly pressed against his front.

Nicola's eyes blink back open, and they're wet. It breaks Dick's heart. _I'm so sorry, Nicola. I'm so sorry..._

"I...am sorry," Nicola gets out. "For kissing you. It was wrong. You are..." He swallows, shaking his head a little, but finishes with, "...Roman's, and I should not have kissed you. I'm sorry."

Dick wants to curl up in a small ball and waste away, plug his ears and cover his eyes so that the world doesn't exist anymore, so _he_ doesn't exist anymore. He did this, he's the reason Nicola's here, the reason he's bloody and being forced to apologize for something so gentle. This wouldn't be happening if Dick was a little bit stronger, a little bit better.

"Roman—" Dick tries.

Roman's hand reaches up, loosely circling Dick's neck and pushing, forcing his head back slightly against his shoulder. "Sh, sh, shh, sweetheart," Roman murmurs. "Do you accept his apology?"

This entire scene Roman's put on is disturbing, and for the second time today Dick feels the urge to vomit.

"Stop this," Dick pleads. "You don't have to do this, Roman, please—It was stupid, so stupid, I'm sorry we kissed, I shouldn't have done it after the first time, I know I shouldn't have—"

Roman's hand tightens around his throat, tight enough to actually be painful and cut off Dick's breathing. Dick jerks, gasping for air, hand flying up instinctively to grab at Roman's hand, but something stops him from actually trying to pull Roman off of him, instead gasping uselessly, straining for air.

Nicola twists in his bindings, something panicked in his eyes, as Roman growls, "What did you just say?" in Dick's ear.

Two things become readily apparent to Dick in that moment:

Number One is that Roman didn't know about their second kiss, that this is just about that first time in the sun room, when Dick ended it and kneed Nicola in the balls.

Number Two is that Dick just _told_ Roman there was a second time, and he has unknowingly pushed them from a minor threat situation to a _gigantic_ one.

"Roman," Dick gasps.

Roman releases him, throwing him to the floor. Dick catches himself on his hands, coughing and sucking in air, and quickly turns on his knees to be able to keep Roman in his sights.

The man stands above him, and is a terrifying sight. His face is twisted in an ugly snarl, the rage rolling off of him in waves.

 _"What did you just say?"_ Roman demands again, fury in his eyes.

"I...Roman—"

"No," Roman interrupts coldly. "No, I asked you a question. _Answer it._ I will not ask you again."

"Yesterday, when I went out," Dick says, unable to raise his voice above a whisper. "I was alone in the museum, Nicola showed up, we...we kissed. It was just—we just—"

_Bang._

Dick doesn't even see Roman draw the gun from his shoulder holster, doesn't know a weapon's in play at all until it goes off, until the bullet hits its target.

Nicola's head snaps back, blood spraying. His body twitches, rocking for a moment, and then goes perfectly still, head tipped over the back of the chair. His expression is still twisted in pain and shock, blood soon running down his face as if to cover the horror of it with horror of another kind.

There's a ringing in Dick's ears. He can't take his eyes off of Nicola, his maybe-friend, the only person Dick's met while under Roman's care that didn't give a shit about anything other than Dick. Dead, because Dick couldn't keep his mouth shut. Dead, because he was stupid enough to love Dick Grayson.

Faintly, he hears the shuffle of footsteps, Roman's men filing out of the library. But it could be in another dimension for all Dick takes note of it, stuck on the dulling of Nicola's beautiful brown eyes, the way his mouth is open in a silent scream even in death.

He doesn't startle or flinch when a hand slides into his hair, not even when the grip turns painful, yanking his head up. It's Roman, of course it is, but Dick can barely see him.

He sees Nicola. Blockbuster. Joey. _Jason._ His fault, always his fault—

Roman's thumb digs into the junction of his jaw, forcing his mouth open. Dick provides no resistance, barely able to keep himself from collapsing to the ground, let alone stop Roman from doing whatever he wants.

He never can. He can never stop Roman. Why does he even try. Why does he do this to himself. Why is he so fucked up that he keeps getting into positions like this. Why why why.

Roman unzips his pants, pulling his cock out. He's not hard, but Dick's pretty sure that's not the point of this.

Sure enough, Roman shoves his cock into Dick's mouth, not wasting any time in fucking roughly. It hurts far more than usual, despite the fact that Roman isn't even half-hard yet, and Dick knows that's on purpose. Roman is trying to hurt him, to punish him.

And Dick just sits there limply and takes it, trying not to gag, knowing that if he vomits Roman might not even stop, might make him choke and asphyxiate on it.

Maybe he _should_ throw up, then. Make all of this go away, at least for a little while.

At the angle Roman has his head tilted, Dick can still see Nicola. Blood is dripping to the floor by this point. He's so still, so _dead._

Cop shows lie. Dead people don't look like alive people who are just sleeping. Nicola doesn't look asleep, or peaceful. He looks empty. He looks broken and beaten and betrayed.

Roman gets harder and harder from the stimulation of fucking Dick's throat, probably from the power too, and the pressure gets worse and more painful. But Dick doesn't fight, doesn't move. What would be the point?

 _You are...Roman's,_ Nicola said. Some of his last words. Forced words, yes, but not wrong. Dick was stupid to think he could have that, have Nicola's gentleness. He was so stupid.

Roman pulls out and comes all over Dick's face, a claiming and humiliating gesture, and then just tucks himself back away.

One of Roman's fingers curves under Dick's chin, forcing his head up, forcing Dick to meet his eyes. Roman doesn't look furious anymore, but deadly calm. Dick can't muster even a fraction of the energy he normally needs to handle Roman like this.

With a derisive noise, Roman releases him, and Dick looks back to Nicola, unable to take his eyes away from the horrible thing he made happen.

He hears Roman walk to the door, pausing just before the exit.

"The next time you let someone else touch you," Roman murmurs, "you'll find out exactly how far I can push this."

And then Dick is alone with a dead body, wishing they could trade places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Bonus points if you caught my stupid vine reference~~  
>   
>  Oof, after that, I offer you [this fluffy nonsense](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099359) to help ease the pain a little <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I'm one of the runners of a [Dick Grayson Fic Exchange](https://dickgraysonexchange2020.tumblr.com/post/618882394206896128/the-dick-grayson-fic-exchange-sign-ups-are), and wanted to let you guys know that sign-ups are open until June 23rd!
> 
> Also this is a ~~much~~ shorter chapter than usual 😅 Sorry! It's just kind of an interlude lol. Next week will be back to regular length, promise!

When Louisa sits down across from her husband at the dinner table, it only takes one look at his face to know something's very wrong.

"Tell me," she says firmly, and Carmine looks up at her, lips pursed.

"Nicola Maroni is dead," he says, voice grave, and Louisa raises a hand to her mouth in shock, the implications of that statement settling like stones in her gut.

She could be wrong. It could have nothing to do with Richard or Roman Sionis, could be any number of things that had taken the young man's life. But the timing of it—it's only been three days since that dinner, where Nicola was far too stupid in his actions. It's possible this is completely unrelated, but in the world they live in, it's highly unlikely.

"Was it...?"

"Sionis?" Carmine extrapolates. "Nothing confirmed, but." He rubs a hand across his forehead. "Christ, this is going to be such a shitstorm. Sal's out for blood, understandably. If this turns into a war..."

"We stay out of it," Louisa demands, and her husband raises his eyebrows. She's not cowed; they've been married for more than forty years, it'll take a lot more than a look to make her defer to him. "We _stay out of it,_ Carmine. This is not our fight. I know you and Sal go way back, I'm quite fond of him myself, but this has nothing to do with us. And do you honestly want to get between him and Roman? Do you really want to declare war on _Black Mask_ over the death of someone you didn't even particularly _like?"_

"He killed Sal's eldest son, Louisa," Carmine says stubbornly. "Whether or not Nicola had a head for the business, he was still Sal's heir, his _son._ I can't say I'll mourn the boy, he was far too soft, but it's not about if _I'm_ mourning. We've given Sionis a lot more respect than I'd been willing to in the beginning, and it's shit like this that proves he shouldn't have as much power as he does."

"Because he killed someone?" Louisa asks, exasperated.

"Because he killed _Sal Maroni's son!"_ Carmine shouts. "Because what all these costumed freaks seem to forget is that we still have power, and will not be walked all over. I couldn't give less of a shit about Nicola, but I _do_ care about some rich bastard in a mask deciding the rules don't apply to him."

Louisa pinches the bridge of her nose. Sometimes she forgets how stubborn her husband is, how tied to the old ways he is. How rigid. This is not their fight, not in any facet of the imagination. And yet Carmine is going to pull them into a war, just because he doesn't like the fact that Roman Sionis hides his face.

"I understand," she says slowly, "where you're coming from. I can see why you're angry. And yes, Roman has made a mistake. But his transgression is against Salvatore, not you. Please, darling. Don't drag us into this. Don't force our men to fight for a cause that has no relevance to any of us."

Carmine purses his lips, frowning at her. He doesn't agree, but he doesn't say no, either. At the moment, she supposes that's the best she can ask for.

As silence falls between them, Louisa can't help but think of Richard, and what he must be going through right now. He never wanted to be responsible for someone else's death, and she'd told him to think of himself, to protect himself. She can only imagine what's going through his head.

She wishes she could offer him some form of comfort, but unfortunately, it's likely that things are far from over.

* * *

"I want the little shit _dead,"_ Sal snarls.

His lieutenants wisely stay silent, none of them wanting to draw his ire, but his brother Lorenzo offers him a tired smile from where he sits in the armchair by the fireplace. "Sionis is in his forties, I don't think you can really call him a _little_ shit."

"Oh, I don't mean Mask," Sal says darkly, "but we'll get to him, definitely. No, I mean the little whore who's responsible for this mess in the first place!"

Lorenzo's eyebrows raise. "Grayson?"

 _"Yes,"_ Sal hisses.

His brother sighs tiredly. "Sal, I think your anger would be better spent towards the guy who actually killed Nicola."

"I'm gonna burn them _all_ to the ground," Sal says, eyes alight with fury. "Every single False Facer, every single person who's _stupid_ enough to follow Roman Fucking Sionis. But I'm gonna _start_ with Grayson, because if he didn't exist Nicola would still be alive!"

Lorenzo purses his lips and glances around the room. "Fellas, give us a minute?"

None of Sal's men complain or hesitate, instantly shuffling out of the room, shutting the door behind them. Sal sneers at his younger brother, irritated.

"The fuck you do that for? We have a war to plan!"

Lorenzo stands, walking over to the wet bar and pouring two generous glasses of scotch, silently passing one to the other man. Sal downs the drink in two large gulps and then slams the glass down on the table in front of him. Lorenzo sips his own drink slowly.

"Sal," Lorenzo sighs. "Fratello, listen to me. I loved Nicola like he was my own, hell sometimes it felt like I was the only one in this family who didn't want to change him—"

Sal whirls around on him, teeth bared furiously. "How _dare_ you? He was my _son!"_

"And you loved him, I know," Lorenzo says, staying calm in the face of his brother's anger. "I'm not trying to say you didn't. I just..." He sighs, shaking his head a little. "Sal, whatever you want to do from here, you will have my support. You know that, fratello, you have to know that. But is the correct target of your rage truly a random boy wrapped up in all this? He has less control over his own life than a _dog_ does. We will kill the man responsible for Nicola's death, but that's Sionis. Keep your eye on the prize."

Sal's lips are curled back in a snarl, but he says nothing, staring at the ground.

After a long while, he says, "I let him be taken, Enzo."

Lorenzo blinks. "...What?"

All of the anger seems to drain out of Sal, leaving behind a tired and grieving father. He slumps down into his chair, rubbing his hand across his forehead.

"I let Sionis take Nicola. Nicola was so stupid, he had some sort of crush on Richard, made a move. Sionis wanted payback, and I...I thought it would be a good lesson for Nic." He shrugs helplessly. "I thought a good beating was what Nicola needed, to get his head on straight. See that actions have consequences. So this would straighten Nic out and Roman would be satisfied. A win-win."

Lorenzo sits down beside his older brother, staring blankly at the fire. "Ah."

"I don't know why he killed him," Sal says quietly. "Sionis is a harsh bastard, and has a reputation for his temper, but he's always been so...controlled, when it comes to consequences for _his_ actions. He knows what the line is. He knows how stupid it would be to cross it. So why the _hell_ did he do this?"

Sal shakes his head, and his jaw sets, some of the anger sparking in his eyes again. "Which brings me back to the little _whore_ Roman's so stuck on. It's all well and good that Roman wants to show his pretty toy off, but when it starts affecting _business?_ When it results in the death of _my son?"_ He shakes his head again. "No, that can't be allowed to continue. I won't _allow it."_

Lorenzo hums thoughtfully.

"You want him dead, fine. We'll kill him. I just don't see the point. Sionis deserves to die, but hell I've been sayin' that from the beginning, back when he really _was_ a little shit, jumped up and thinking himself all that. But you didn't listen, wanted to see it play out, and he grew in power until the decision was completely out of your hands, and out of Falcone's. Neither of you took Sionis seriously until it was too late."

"Are you saying this is _my_ fault?"

"I'm saying this isn't gonna be as simple as you want it to be," Lorenzo snaps. "I'm sayin' maybe don't disrespect your son's feelings by killing the boy he was risking quite a lot for."

Sal looks at him incredulously. "Are you serious? You want me to spare Grayson because Nicola had a _crush?"_

Lorenzo rolls his eyes skyward for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Nicola was a good man," he says eventually. "A great one, even. You all called him soft and weak, but he was simply _good._ I had hoped, one day, that he'd just up and leave. That you'd call me in a panic, sayin' Nic was missing, but he was really on a train to somewhere else, anywhere but here. I wanted that for him. He deserved it. And now...well, that's never gonna happen. But I'm not gonna blame the poor kid he fell for for his death. That rests on Roman Sionis' shoulders, and no one else's."

Sal doesn't say anything, and Lorenzo doesn't press for him to. They let the silence remain, mourning the young man they both loved.

"He was so stupid," Sal hisses angrily, but it sounds wet. "Why was he so fucking _stupid?_ Why couldn't he just keep his emotions to himself like you're _supposed to_ in situations like this?"

Lorenzo huffs a laugh. "Nicola was never one to hide, and you know it. Never made it a secret when he loved somebody, and always quick to fall." He pauses, debating adding something, and then says, "You know I still look out for Jamie?"

Sal frowns at him, trying to place the name, and barks a laugh when it clicks. "Are you serious? Nicola's boyfriend from high school? Why the fuck would you do that?"

"Because Nic loved him," Lorenzo says simply, shrugging a shoulder. Sal doesn't know what to say. "Because it wasn't _his_ fault Nicola's family is what it is. He deserved more than the way you and Andrea treated him. So I look out for him. He's a doctor now. Limited mobility in his right arm because of the way you worked him over, but still a hell of a doctor."

Sal winces, but doesn't comment.

"We'll get the man responsible, fratello," Lorenzo says firmly. "We'll get Sionis."

"...Yeah," Sal says after a long moment. "Yeah, alright."

* * *

"You're staring."

Mara startles, not having heard Justin approach, and glances over at him, attempting a smile that comes off more like a grimace. "Yeah, I know, but...can you blame me?"

Justin only grimaces right back at her, which is as good an agreement as she knows she's going to get, and then turns his attention to the person she's spent the last ten minutes watching.

This is not the first time in the last few months that she's felt concerned for Dick. They've worked together for going on three years now, and she's always liked him and the work he does with the kids. She's always known there was something a little...off about him, but he was so kind and they all have their traumas so she never pushed.

But these last few months...

No matter what the media says, no matter how many gossip shows and articles gush about how great a boyfriend Roman Sionis is, Mara—and Justin, and the others who work with Dick—knows better. She's seen Dick applying concealer to bruises after he showers, and dragging his feet after lessons to go back with the man always waiting on the bleachers. She's seen how exhausted he looks when he thinks no one is watching, and the tightness in his smile whenever someone asks about how his relationship is going.

She has no doubts about what's _really_ going on in that relationship, nor about where the bruises on his body come from. The current story might be that that _thing_ on his face came from an attack, but Mara's seen all the other marks, and odds are that this bruise is no different. She doesn't know why he didn't cover it up—maybe it was too dark to do easily—but the why doesn't really matter.

But the reason she's been staring today, is that things seem...worse. The fake smile on Dick's face _looks_ fake, and usually he's so much better of an actor than that. His movements, usually so easy and graceful, are stilted and tight. He's not joking as much as he usually does, and his praise with his students is far flatter than the gushing he normally does.

Something happened. She saw him just a few days ago on Monday morning (given, that was just in passing), but even then he didn't seem this...empty. Something _happened_ to him, and she's absolutely terrified to know what it is.

"Should we do something?" Justin asks quietly, the pair of them watching as Dick shows his student a new flip. "Should we...I don't know, do we call the police? Domestic abuse hotline?"

Mara snorts; Justin's sweet, and trying to help, but Mara knows that would do nothing. Even if the cops who answered the call were clean, there's still nothing they could do unless Dick actually admitted _Hey, my boyfriend's beating me, maybe you could do something about that?_ And considering everything she's seen so far, she finds it extremely unlikely that Dick would come out with it that easily.

Victims never do, in situations like this.

"They won't do anything," Mara sighs. "And who knows, maybe Sionis would hurt Dick for bringing the cops to his doorstep."

Justin grimaces, and says nothing.

Tomorrow is Justin's birthday; Mara began organizing him a surprise party a few weeks ago, and invited Dick to go. She'd known he would probably say no, that he wouldn't be able to show, but she'd wanted to...make sure he knew he still had them. That life might be shit right now, but he's not alone. He can turn to them, if he wants. Someday, he'll want. And she'll be here.

So she'll keep inviting him to things and making sure he knows there's backup waiting in his friends, and maybe one day he'll be able to take her up on it.

Across the gym, Dick's class comes to a close, him bidding all the kids goodbye. One of them steps forward and wraps her arms around Dick's waist in a tight hug, and Dick blinks down at her, looking surprised. He hesitantly hugs back, saying something Mara's too far away to hear, and the girl only seems to hug him even tighter.

Dick looks mystified for another moment or so, but then his eyes close and he squeezes the girl back, letting out a slow breath. He says something else and then pushes the girl gently away, nudging her to go follow the other students to get changed.

"We've gotta do something," Justin mutters. "He looks half-dead."

He does. There's a flatness in Dick's eyes that feels unnatural, a blankness where _expression_ used to cling to him. Mara is simultaneously desperately curious about what happened, and determined to never find out. Because whatever it is, it can't be good.

"There's nothing to do," Mara sighs back. "Not now. Maybe not for a long time."

Justin shakes his head sadly, turning away. "Come on," he says. "Let's give him some time alone."

Mara's eyes drift to the man waiting in the bleachers, his attention fixed on Dick. It's not the same man who's been there the past couple months, but someone completely new. She wonders if that change up has anything to do with whatever happened to make Dick so weighed down.

"As alone as he ever is, at least," Mara mutters, angry on Dick's behalf.

"As alone as he ever is," Justin agrees, and leads the way out of the gym.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a request!  
> I want to make a playlist for this series, and I already have a handful of songs I really think fit, but I was wondering if any of y'all would like to share some songs with me you think should be on such a playlist? Either drop a comment or message me on [tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath) or, y'know, send a carrier pigeon. Smoke signals work too. I'd appreciate it!
> 
> As ever, I hope you enjoyed!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **1)** I have received another [piece of art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513889) for this series (this from the wonderful [Morimaitar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar)), and I need to say thank you _so much_ to the amazing artists who are making things for this series, it literally makes my life to see something I wrote come to life. Just, astounding.
> 
>  **2)** My thanks to everyone for the song recs! I appreciate it so much, got so many great songs across various platforms. If you'd like to give it a listen, you can find the playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2LFbiQlxFSkAFfm1CgK72m?si=dZQ3TGteT8KfkGV0qltxXQ)!
> 
>  **3)** These next few chapters are just about the definition of "It Gets Worse." And you might be thinking _But Q, how could it_ possibly _get any worse from here?!_ The answer, dear readers, is many, _many_ ways.
> 
> Enjoy ;)

When Dick sits down at the breakfast table on Tuesday morning, only nineteen hours after Nicola's murder, the first thing Roman says to him is, "Tomorrow I'm going to have your new guards come over, so you can become acquainted with them."

Dick doesn't look over at him. But he does ask, "New guards?"

"Mmhm."

He shouldn't ask, he doesn't want to ask— "What about Lou and Joseph?"

He can feel Roman looking at him, eyes burning into the side of his face. "They left you alone."

Dick's head snaps up, meeting Roman's gaze. There's something so innocent about the look on Roman's face, a sharp contrast to the coldness of his eyes. And Dick knows they're dead.

It's not like Dick was particularly fond of his watchers, but he didn't want them to die for him. That puts Dick's body count up to three.

Joseph has a young daughter. She's sick. It's why Joseph started working for Roman in the first place, to afford her care. Now that he's dead, what will happen to her? Roman isn't a generous man, let alone to those he considers traitors; he won't continue paying the family to make sure the girl doesn't die. And if the girl _does_ die...

Four deaths, because of Dick.

Dick lowers his gaze again, staring down at the plate in front of him. He's not hungry in the slightest, in fact the very idea of eating anything right now makes him want to vomit, but there are rules to meals with Roman. He can't just not eat. That would be _rude. D_ _isrespectful._ _Ungrateful._ And Roman detests all of those things.

 _Just take a bite,_ Dick tells himself. _Just one bite. We'll take this one step at a time. All you have to do right now is take one bite._

Dick picks up his fork, stabs it into the scrambled eggs, lifts it to his mouth. The smell makes his stomach rebel, churning with nausea, but he clamps down on it as tightly as he can, breathing deeply. It's just one bite.

It's slimy in his mouth, slimy going down his throat. But he did it.

And now, again. Just one bite, that's all he has to do.

He just needs to breathe for a second before he does it. He's fine. Everything's okay. He's not going to throw up. Just one bite.

"Problem, sweetheart?"

Dick doesn't jump at the sudden voice in the dead silence, and he doesn't look up, either. "No."

"No?" Roman questions. "You sure about that? You've been here for twenty minutes, now, and you've barely touched your food."

Twenty minutes? Christ.

"Is the food not to your satisfaction?" Roman prompts when he receives no response.

"It's delicious, Roman," Dick replies immediately. He can't be ungrateful.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Roman lean forward, forearms braced on the table. "Then why aren't you _eating it?"_

If he tells Roman he feels nauseous, Roman could find some awful way to use it against him, exploit the weakness somehow, maybe needle at _why_ Dick doesn't feel well. Dick wouldn't put anything past Roman. But Dick can't _lie,_ either. Roman would know. He always knows. And after yesterday, Dick doesn't think he could handle a punishment, he couldn't...

His dreams last night were filled with Nicola's face, with the sound of the gun firing, and he woke up with tear tracks on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Dick murmurs.

He hears Roman sigh, and then there's a hand griping Dick's chin and lifting his head, turning it to look at Roman. There's something critical in his gaze, something _searching_ as his eyes flick over Dick's face.

"Come here," Roman says after a few long moments.

Dick _really_ doesn't want to. But he stands up nonetheless, Roman releasing his grip on Dick's chin, and pushes his chair in. He steps up beside Roman, and finds it almost... _unsettling_ to have Roman looking up at him instead of the other way around.

"Kneel."

Dick swallows back a bitter taste, and does as he's told.

Roman places his hand on the top of Dick's head, making him bow it, and doesn't move or say anything else. Dick's pulse picks up, truly unsettled now. What is the point of this? What is Roman planning?

Eventually, Roman's hand slips away. Dick doesn't dare move, though, keeping his head bowed.

Dick isn't a religious man. He believes there's a higher power out there, believes in an afterlife; he simply knows too many people who deal with Heaven and Hell and everything in between to ignore the idea of it. But he's never been religious.

And yet right now, kneeling at the feet of the man whose word acts as law for Dick, head bowed in submission, he can't help but wonder if this is how people feel in church when they lower themselves from the pew, stained glass windows shining above them, depictions of their Lord always watching over.

Roman is very far from God. Or, Dick at least hopes so. If God exists, if there is a sole Creator of the universe, then Dick doesn't think he could handle Him being anything like Roman. Where is the mercy, the justice, the peace? Where is the vengeance against wrong-doing? Where is the forgiveness for the repentant?

There are many, many gods out there that people believe in. He's sure not all of them are good, or kind, or merciful. He's sure there are some who are cruel and cold and do not exist to help, but to hurt.

If Roman is a god, then he's one of _them._

Another few moments pass, and then Roman's hand returns. But this time it doesn't press on the top of his head, it reaches down instead, into Dick's line of sight. Dick's eyes flick up to look at it automatically, and then his brow furrows when he sees that Roman is holding a small piece of toast, butter spread and melted over it.

With his head bowed the way it is, Dick can't see Roman face. He wishes he could, maybe get a clue about what Roman's thinking, what all this is about.

"Eat," Roman murmurs, voice smooth and low, hand moving forward a little to be closer to Dick's mouth.

Dick's cheeks heat. He wants him to eat out of his hand? Is he _serious?_ Dick might be wearing a collar but he isn't a _pet,_ shouldn't have to eat from Roman's hand like an _animal._

"Something wrong?" Roman asks, echoing his question from before.

Dick stutters out an awkward laugh. "Are you serious right now?"

"Extremely," Roman says.

"Roman—"

"You wouldn't eat from your plate, didn't touch your glass; clearly you need assistance. Because you will be eating, Richard. So _eat."_

Dick stares at the hand. This is so humiliating. And degrading. And...

 _And is it really any worse than everything he's already done to you? Everything he's already made_ you _do?_

Dick leans forward, tentatively opening his mouth. He has to take the ends of Roman's fingers into his mouth in order to get all of the food, but Roman doesn't try anything, letting him draw back without incident. Dick chews the toast, focusing on Roman's order to eat, unwilling to anger him. He can handle a little humiliation, if it means Roman doesn't punish him.

When Dick swallows, he hears Roman murmur, "Good," from above him, and then the hand returns, another piece of buttered toast extended towards Dick's mouth. Dick takes it without complaint this time, chewing and swallowing, breathing deeply through it all, needing to not disobey.

"Good," Roman says again. He sounds like he means it. Some of the tension in Dick's shoulders loosens.

The process repeats over and over again, almost...peaceful. Dick's mind gets a little fuzzy somewhere along the way, not aware of anything more than Roman's hand feeding him, and Roman's smooth voice praising him with each bite.

The offered food ends after a period of time Dick can't identify. Roman's hand tilts Dick's face up just a little, wiping a napkin over his lips and chin. Dick blinks slowly, happy to let himself be cared for.

Roman tilts Dick's head up further, far enough to look him in the eye. Roman's squinting down at him slightly, a bemused smile curving his lips, and Dick smiles back at him, head floaty. It makes Roman's smile widen, eyes sparking.

"Look at you," Roman coos. "Oh, _baby._ Haven't seen you like this since you were nineteen. A soft touch, hm? I should've remembered. You're not just a pain slut; you want Daddy to take care of you."

Dick goes pliantly when Roman places his hand on the back of his neck, nudging him forward. He presses his forehead against Roman's thigh, letting out a soft sigh as Roman's fingers massage at the nape of his neck.

"Yeah, that's right. You act out sometimes, slut around with people you shouldn't. But at the end of the day you want to be a good boy, don't you? You just forget how. But that's okay; I'm always happy to put you back in your place.

"Are you hard, sweetheart?" Roman asks, and his foot nudges between Dick's knees, heading towards his crotch. "Did you get hard from being such a good boy for Daddy?"

Dick moans softly, pressing his face more firmly against Roman's thigh. Roman chuckles lowly above him and presses his foot against Dick's clothed cock. He's not hard, not really, but he's not limp, either. He can't remember the last time he started to get hard without physical stimulation, without Roman's hand around his cock or something up his ass, pressing against his prostate.

It's so...nice. Dick can barely remember...this is so...there's something wrong, he knows. Something bad, but his head is so delightfully floaty, and Roman's hand on the back of his neck feels so nice, and he's been good, Daddy said he's been good.

"You want to make me feel good, too, baby?" Roman asks.

Dick nods against the material of the other man's slacks, pushing up slightly into the foot on his crotch. Roman's made him feel good, told him he's good, he should make Roman feel good, too.

Roman chuckles. "Of course you do. Good boy. I forgot how malleable you are like this."

Dick hears the rustle of clothing, the clink of a belt coming undone. Then Roman's hand is pulling him forward, up into a high kneel between Roman's spread legs. Roman hums, rubbing his thumb over Dick's lips, followed by the head of his cock. Precum smears over Dick's lips, and his tongue darts out unconsciously to clean them, briefly touching Roman's cock.

"Open up," Roman coos, and then, when Dick does, says, "Such a good boy."

"Uh, Boss?"

Roman goes rigid in his chair, the hand on the back of Dick's neck tightening. His head snaps over to look at whoever is interrupting, face twisted into a furious snarl. The look makes Dick shudder, a thrill of fear running through his body.

"I-I'm sorry," whoever it is stutters out. "There's...there's, uh—"

"Spit it out," Roman snaps.

"There's someone here, says he works for Maroni. Says it's urgent."

Roman's snarl fades away into something cool and calculating. His fingers start massaging at the nape of Dick's neck again. "Where is he?"

"Lobby; Johnson and McKellar didn't let 'im into the elevator."

"Good," Roman says. "Is he alone?"

"Yes."

Roman's eyes narrow slightly. "Alright. You can go fetch him; bring him to my office."

"Yes, Boss."

There's the sound of footsteps very quickly walking away, and then Roman looks down at Dick, lips pursed.

"Seems I have to go handle this," Roman mutters. "We'll have to cut this short."

Roman nudges Dick away and stands, tucking himself back into his slacks. Dick stares dumbly up at him, head still buzzing, and then watches as Roman walks away, down the hall and out of sight.

Dick isn't sure how long he sits there before his head starts to ache, a dull throb beginning right behind his forehead and then radiating to the rest of his head. It's almost like a hangover coming out of nowhere, and Dick feels himself shaking, weirdly sick. He feels _exhausted,_ despite only waking up an hour and a half ago.

"Fuck," he mumbles to the empty room around him, and then curves over himself, wrapping his arms around his middle.

He needs to get himself up. He needs to drink some juice, or coffee, to level his head out a bit. Then he should go curl back up in bed, grab one of the extra blankets in the closet. He knows how to take care of himself during a drop. It just fucking _sucks._

Slowly, he manages to get his feet beneath him, and push himself to a standing position, bracing a hand on the table to remain upright. Glancing around, he sees that he really is alone in the dining room, and a sharp pang of desperate loneliness radiates in Dick's chest.

He ignores it the best he can, picking up Roman's coffee mug and sipping it as he begins to make his way back to the bedroom, hoping to shut himself away from the rest of the world for a little while.

* * *

On Wednesday morning, forty-four hours after Nicola's murder, Dick meets his new guards.

Dick bothers to learn their names—Andy and Caleb—but nothing past that, refusing to let himself become familiar with them, become even the slightest bit attached. They are the men paid to watch him and contain him if he decides to act out. They are not his friends, and them doing anything to deviate from Roman's orders will result in their deaths.

So Dick isn't going to learn more about them, this time. He knew a lot about Joseph and Lou. But Andy and Caleb blend into the rest of them, barely a blip on Dick's radar. It's better this way.

Roman's absent for almost the whole day, leaving with an offhand, "Don't leave the penthouse," and not returning until late. Dick doesn't bother to think more into it, doesn't bother to wonder what Roman's up to.

It's not his business. It doesn't matter. He just has to do as he's told, and no one else will get hurt because of him.

* * *

On Thursday morning, sixty-two hours after Nicola's murder, Dick gets dressed for his gymnastics class, anticipation tight in his gut. He hasn't left the penthouse since his trip to the gun range with Roman on Monday, hasn't had a single moment away from all of _this,_ and he's so desperate for the outlet, so grateful for the excuse to get away for a little while.

But Roman takes one look at him and asks seriously, "Where do you think you're going?"

Dick falters, unsure. He's been with Roman for almost three months now; his schedule has never changed. Classes on Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Roman is meticulous, and never forgetful. He knows exactly where Dick is going. So why ask?

"I have class," Dick says.

Roman's serious expression doesn't shift. "You honestly think I'm going to let you go to that?"

Dick's chest seizes. No, Roman can't take this away from him. He _can't._ It is the one thing Dick has left, the last place he can go. Roman already poisoned it by visiting, by fucking him right where he teaches his classes, but it's still _miles_ better than being at the penthouse. Roman can't fucking do this.

"Why wouldn't you?" Dick asks, trying his best to keep his voice level. "Part of our deal was that I could continue teaching."

A slow smile spreads across Roman's face. "Our _deal,"_ he says with relish. "You sure you want to be citing our _deal_ to me, Richard? Because I'm pretty sure you've had a few breaches of contract."

Dick clenches his jaw, breathing deeply. "May I please go, Roman?"

"It's not safe."

Dick barely resists rolling his eyes. Safe? _Safe?_ Since when has Roman ever cared about Dick's _safety?_ And he's been going to Bludhaven three times a week for _months,_ now; why the sudden concern for _safety?_

"Roman—"

"Sit down," Roman interrupts tightly, pointing at his usual chair at the dining room table. Dick hesitates for only half a second before doing as he's told, quietly sitting.

Roman takes a moment, looking like he's deciding what to say, which leaves Dick feeling on edge.

"Do you remember," Roman says slowly, "what I said to Nicola about my deal with Sal?"

Hearing Nicola's name hurts more than Dick would've expected. Like a raw wound being scraped against the ground. And he doesn't want to think back to that event, doesn't want to remember the details of what happened in library when he's been trying _so fucking hard_ to forget. He doesn't want to see Nicola's head snapping back, the blood, the lifelessness in his eyes.

"That Maroni thought Nicola was stupid," Dick says quietly. He barely manages to keep the tremble out of his words. "You said...he's a smart man, and you came to an arrangement."

What kind of father would do something like that? How could Salvatore Maroni stand to look at himself in the mirror? How could he look at his two young sons and not be reminded of the fact that he sent their older brother to the slaughter? Bruce has his flaws, but he'd _never_ sell them out like Maroni has done.

"The arrangement," Roman says carefully, "was not, strictly speaking, for Nicola's life."

Dick stares at him as that sinks in.

And then he starts to laugh.

Roman's eyes narrow, displeased with the reaction, but Dick can't help it, he really can't. Roman wasn't supposed to kill Nicola. Roman killed Sal's son. _Black Mask_ killed _Sal Maroni's_ heir. Wow. Just— _wow._

"Wow," Dick says. "You...did not think that one through, huh?"

"Careful now, sweetheart," Roman says, falsely light. "Let's not forget what led to me pulling the trigger."

Dick will never be able to forget. Not ever.

"I know," Dick says hoarsely, closing his eyes. "But you've got bigger problems on your hands right now, don't you?"

"I can handle Maroni," Roman says. His tone is dismissive, but Dick knows the other man far better than Roman would probably like to admit, and he can hear the undercurrent of tension in his blasé voice. "But until the problem is dealt with, it's not safe for you to go out."

"Please," Dick whispers, and opens his eyes. "Please. I understand your concern, I really do. But I need this, Roman. And we've got quite a lot of media attention right now, in case you forgot. People haven't seen me out and about in three days. They're going to start talking. We need to keep them all _happy,_ right? Keep them thinking that everything's perfect here? Which means me following my usual schedule."

Roman doesn't look happy, and Dick knows it's because Roman doesn't like being forced into situations. He sees Dick's logic, and _hates_ it. He'd decided Dick needed to stay home so that Maroni didn't go after him, and has no wish to change the plan because of a point _Dick_ brought up.

There's something almost fascinating about watching Roman in moments like this, where he's come to a decision and absolutely _despises_ that he has. Usually Dick gets indirectly punished for it later—Roman simply being irritated by the whole thing, and getting a little rough—but in the moment it's still satisfying.

"Fine," Roman says coldly. "But if you for a single _moment_ attempt to get out of eyesight of Andrew or Caleb, you will find yourself facing consequences."

Dick nods quickly. "Of course."

"And no staying late today; you teach your class, and then you get in the car and drive back here."

Dick nods again, though he's less fond of that decision. "Got it."

"Fine," Roman says again. "Go, then."

Dick doesn't need to be told twice, immediately getting to his feet and heading towards the elevator.

* * *

The class takes more out of him than he realized it would.

He forgot how much energy—mental, emotional, physical—it takes to run a class filled with twenty-something eight- to ten-year-olds. And kids are extremely perceptive; they pick up on far more than adults tend to give them credit for, and he knows they can sense something is off.

He's trying his best, he really is. He's a master actor, a master of pretending to be fine when he's not. But it feels like things just keep getting worse and worse, like no matter what he does, he'll never be able to help, just doing more harm than good.

He got Nicola killed. He got Joseph and Lou killed. He might get a young girl killed. He's poison. These kids should be far away from him before he gets them hurt, too.

When the class ends—bringing with it an unusual feeling of relief that it's over—Dick ignores the feeling of his coworkers watching him. He doesn't want to know what they see, if his disguise really is as brittle as it feels. He just needs to clean up, shower, and get back to Gotham.

Leah, a girl from his class, approaches hesitantly. Dick offers her a smile, and she throws her arms around his waist, hugging tightly.

Dick blinks down at her, surprised, arms raised awkwardly in the air. But he gets with the program quickly enough, lowering his arms to hug the girl back. "Hey, it's okay. Are you alright, Leah?"

The girl's arms tighten even further around him. "Everything's gonna be okay, Mr. Grayson." Dick blinks, mystified. "When my daddy's sad, hugs help. And reminding him that everything's gonna be okay."

Dick closes his eyes, hating himself for being obvious enough that a ten-year-old is feeling the need to offer him comfort. It's not supposed to be a kid's job to take care of an adult, but the other way around. Dick used to think differently, used to think his job as Robin was to keep Batman safe. It wasn't until he _was_ Batman and had his own Robin that he truly realized how wrong he was.

"I'm okay," Dick tells Leah, gently pushing her away. "I promise, Leah. Everything _is_ gonna be okay. Now why don't you go get changed? Your mom is probably waiting for you."

Leah nods, stepping back reluctantly. "Bye, Mr. Grayson."

Dick watches her go, and then turns back to finish cleaning up. No use ruminating.

When he's finished, he heads to the teachers' locker room to shower and change. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Andy stand from his spot on the short bleachers and follow after him. Dick can't decide if that makes him want to roll his eyes or vomit, so he settles for resolutely pretending it's not happening; he promised Roman, after all. Always in line of sight.

The ride back to Gotham and to the penthouse is silent, neither of his new guards saying a word, barely even glancing at him.

Dick wonders if they know what happened to their predecessors.

Roman isn't out in the open when Dick returns, so he figures the man is either out or in his office. Either way, Dick has no desire to seek him out, so he goes back to the bedroom to put his collar back on and then flops down on a couch in the living room, settling down with a random book from one of the shelves.

After about fifteen minutes, his stomach rumbles, so he marks his place in the book and gets up, heading to grab a snack from the kitchen.

On his way back to the living room, he passes the dining room, and sees Roman's tablet sitting out in the open.

Dick frowns, glancing around; Roman guards his tablet obsessively, even amongst people who he knows would never dare to do anything with it. Dick doesn't know what exactly Roman keeps on it—things for his business, of course, but no specifics—but he knows it's important.

Which means Roman must _really_ be off-kilter with this whole Maroni thing, if he's leaving his tablet laying out in the open.

 _Wait,_ Dick realizes as he gets closer. It's not just _out_ in the open; it's actually _open._

Dick jerks back a step, eyes wide, staring at the lit-up screen. Three months living with Roman, sleeping beside him, eating at his table, and never _once_ has Dick gotten a glance at the screen of his tablet while it was open.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he cautiously walks forward, stepping up beside where the tablet rests. It's Roman's email account, currently open on the most recent message to come in.

It's a lot of technical jargon about a shipment and division of assets, and a plan to make up the profits lost during a previous deal. There's...there's reference to a new weapon Dick doesn't quite understand. The language around it is vague, undetermined if it's a type of firearm or blade or even a person being considered a weapon, but none of this sounds good. In fact, what he's reading sounds extremely _threatening._

Dick would think, with everything currently on Roman's plate, that Roman would take a step back from being an overachieving crimelord. Something like this, right now—with Maroni as pissed as he must be, is now the time to up the ante? And to this degree? Is it an attempt to distract Maroni, maybe overwhelm him before he gets the chance to retaliate?

Fuck, Bruce and everyone else are going to have their hands full very soon. It's going to hit them out of nowhere.

Unless...Dick gets a warning to them.

Nicola's face flashes through Dick's mind, a reminder of what happens when Dick goes against what Roman wants. If he tries to warn his family, and Roman catches him, the punishment so soon after Nicola could be...horrible.

So the question is, is the risk worth the reward? If he manages to get this information to Bruce and the others, it could help them prepare for what looks like quite a dangerous situation. Could help them protect themselves better, and protect the innocent people who would get killed through something like this. That's quite the excellent reward.

But Dick has no idea what the punishment would be.

He glances around quickly, picking the tablet up, and gets to work. Because he doesn't matter, in the long run. He doesn't matter. If he can help his family and friends, help protect people, then the punishment doesn't matter. He's nothing.

He couldn't save Nicola, but he can do this.

Roman's cyber security is, predictably, something spectacular. It doesn't want to allow him to forward this email to an unfamiliar server, doesn't want to do anything at all without various proper security codes and barriers. It's truly impressive, and daunting. But Dick's been working on stuff like this since before he even hit double-digits, so he knows how to go about it.

It's just...far _slower_ than he would like it to be. To do this right he needs to take his time, check off all the boxes to get the email through the security undetected and then delete a record of any such thing having happened, but it's only a matter of time before Roman realizes he left his tablet and returns to get it.

"Yes," Dick breathes when he's successful, and quickly goes through pulling himself out of the system, heart pounding in his chest. "Yes, yes, yes."

He puts the tablet back exactly as he found it and then rushes back to the living room, picking up his book. His pulse is too fast, his body heated, but he keeps his expression calm, his body relaxed. Everything is fine. It's all fine.

When half an hour passes without incident, he actually manages to convince himself he got away with it.

But then two of Roman's men appear, expressions grave.

Dick swallows.

"The boss wants to see you," one of them says, his tone making it clear this isn't a request.

Dick nods and gets to his feet, then silently follows them from the room, down the hall, and into Roman's office.

* * *

Roman's eyes are dark as he stares at him.

"Roman—" Dick tries.

"Be quiet," the man orders coolly, and Dick falls instantly silent, hands twisting anxiously behind his back. He watches Roman warily, attention drawn to the rhythmic drumming of his fingers on the top of his desk.

The mobster looks like a king holding court, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee, back straight against the back of his large desk chair, chin raised and looking down on the rest of them through his sharp, furious gaze.

That fury is currently concentrated on Dick, standing in the center of the office. Smartly, the other men in the room keep to the edges, making no moves to draw their boss' ire towards themselves.

"I want you to tell me what exactly you were thinking," Roman says eventually, still cold as ice, still _furious,_ and it makes Dick swallow. And honestly, he isn't sure if an explanation could possibly fix this. Not with how angry Roman is. Not with what Dick did.

"I—"

"I've changed my mind," Roman interrupts. The drumming of his fingers is loud in the tensely silent room. "I don't care what you have to say. It doesn't matter in the slightest." He tilts his head to the left, looking at one of his lieutenants, who snaps to attention. "What's the damage?"

"Minimal," the man responds immediately. "Our system clamped down on the message at the last second, flagging it as unauthorized; there were...fragments that got out, but only a few words, a couple of numbers. Nothing that would really make any sense."

Dick doesn't know which emotion is stronger; his anger that he wasn't completely successful, or his relief that maybe since he _wasn't,_ Roman will be less pissed.

Roman nods, expression not changing, and looks back to Dick. "You," he says on a breath, "are a pain in my fucking side."

Dick swallows back the urge to scream, _Then why the fuck am I still here?_ Instead he holds his tongue and waits, because things are—bad right now. And he can't make them worse. He messed up, he _messed up,_ and he can't risk pissing Roman off any further. If he pushes it, their identities could be at stake. Hell, his fucking _life_ is at stake, if he pushes Roman far enough. After this past week...

"Do you regret it?" Roman asks, tone falsely light. Dick suppresses a shiver, heart pounding. This is _so fucking bad—_

"I'm so sorry, Roman," Dick says hoarsely. "I'm so—"

"That," Roman interrupts smoothly, "is _not_ what I asked."

Dick falls silent.

Roman smiles thinly. He glances towards a few of his men and very calmly orders, "Strip him."

Dick barely has time to suck in a breath before the men are on him, ripping his clothes off, sometimes quite literally. Dick hisses as the rough movement yanks at preexisting injuries, but he ignores the instinct to fight, letting them do what they want. He can't make this worse. He can't make this worse. He can't—

When they've finished and he's naked, they all step back, dogs called to heel. Dick shivers in the sudden cold, folding his arms across his chest, and looks up at Roman warily. The man just stares at him for a few long moments, cold and critical, and then gets to his feet, walking measuredly around the desk and towards Dick until he's standing directly in front of the younger man.

Roman sighs. Shakes his head. "Richard," he says, and then nothing else.

"I'm—"

"I didn't give you permission to speak," Roman snaps, fire flaring in his eyes, and Dick cringes. "Something seems to have slipped your mind these last few days, _sweetheart._ Something very important. And you know what that is?"

Dick looks at him hesitantly, unsure if he's expected to actually answer. He doesn't have to wait long, however, because barely a few seconds after Roman stops speaking, he swings his fist into Dick's gut.

Dick coughs, wind knocked very thoroughly out of him, curving forward around Roman's arm. Roman's other hand goes up to grab the collar around his neck and yank him back upright. Dick's stomach muscles spasm at the motion, complaining, but he forces himself to straighten, breathing through the pain. Roman hits hard, for sure, but Dick's handled worse.

"You seem to have forgotten," Roman hisses in his ear, "that you _belong to me."_

"I haven't forgotten," Dick feels the need to say. "I haven't, Roman—"

"Be quiet!" Roman roars, and then shoves him back. Dick stumbles, rights himself, and then gets shoved back further until he hits the wall. _"Be quiet,_ you awful little whore. Jesus fucking _Christ._ You—"

He cuts off, pinching the bridge of his nose, and then shakes his head, breathing harshly through his nose. "I was lenient with you, about Nicola. Far more lenient than I could've been. I figured that killing him in front of you, fucking your throat right there, would be enough to quell whatever little _rebellion_ had risen in you.

"But instead, you do... _this._ You have made a mockery of me and of yourself. I'm highly tempted to send TMZ some photos of you, let the world truly understand just how slutty you are."

Dick's heart seizes. He swallows, and says nothing.

Roman strides forward, trapping Dick against the wall. "You _belong to me,_ Richard baby. You do not get to do things like what you did today, you don't _get to,_ because you are _property._ And property doesn't mess up my hard work like this!" He's shouting by the end, making Dick wince at how close they are. His pulse is running a mile a minute.

"So clearly," Roman says, pulling back, calming himself, "you need a reminder. You need to really be shown your place in this situation, because _somehow_ you've forgotten it. I thought we'd reached a stable point, sweetheart. I thought you'd settled." He sighs like a disappointed father. "Clearly I was wrong."

"I'm sorry," Dick chances. "I'm so, _so_ sorry, Roman. I know I belong to you, I was stupid, I didn't think—"

Roman laughs and pats Dick condescendingly on the cheek. "Of course you didn't. I attributed too many brain cells to you, didn't I? That was a mistake. Whores aren't too smart, they don't _think._ How could I expect anything else from you?"

Dick says nothing. Roman sighs again.

He heads over to a cabinet on the right side of the room, one of his men scrambling to get out of his way. Roman punches in the code and rips the drawer open. He reaches inside, doing something to whatever's in there, and then turns back around to look at Dick. Dick sees one of the men near it glance inside and do a double-take, eyes going wide.

Dick tries to swallow the dread building inside him.

"It's alright, baby. We simply need another _lesson,_ don't we? Yes, I think everyone needs a lesson."

No one says anything for a long minute, everyone tense, with Roman just _standing_ there, staring at Dick with dark, cold eyes.

Something beeps inside the drawer. Roman's lips curve up slightly, pleased, and he goes back to the drawer, reaching inside.

"Hold him still," Roman says over his shoulder, and instantly there are four men on Dick, grasps tight and very firmly keeping him in place. Dick doesn't understand why so much force is necessary—he'll take whatever punishment Roman has, because he _needs_ to—but then Roman turns back to face him and—

Dick's thoughts blank out for a moment, staring at what Roman's holding. Because there's—no way. He's not. He _wouldn't._ He can't—

"You don't like it?" Roman asks innocently, and that's all the confirmation Dick needs. He thrashes against the hands on him, trying to twist away, fear-fueled adrenaline flooding his veins. Roman smiles cruelly at him, satisfied by his reaction, and walks casually towards him.

"You know," Roman says, tone conversational like four grown men aren't currently struggling to hold onto Dick, "I had this made a while back. It was after a rather harsh session, when you were all covered in my marks..." He hums, clearly feeling pleasure at the memory. "I wanted you to _always_ have a piece of me. So, on a whim, I ordered this to be made. Didn't know if I'd ever get around to using it. But now? Now, you really need a reminder of your place in the world. Of _who owns you."_

"I know who owns me," Dick rushes to say, eyes wide. "You do, Roman! _Daddy,_ you own me, I know you do, I belong to you, I'm your property—"

"That's very nice to hear," Roman says graciously. "But I still need to _punish_ you, baby. Think of this as a two for one—punishment, and a permanent reminder of where you belong."

He's close enough now that Dick can feel the heat emanating off of the object in his hand. It makes him press back against the men holding him, twisting desperately, but they don't back off, keeping him still for what their boss wants.

"Don't worry," Roman coos, "I'm sure you'll look _divine."_ His eyes flick seriously towards his men. "Hold him _still."_

And then the red-hot electric brand is pressing against Dick's chest, right over his heart.

Dick _screams_ as his flesh burns, the burning object searing his skin, and it's not ending it's never going to end Dick can smell his own burning flesh he's screaming it hurts why won't it end why won't it end whywon'titend _whywon'titend—_

Dick passes out.

When he drifts back towards consciousness, he's on the floor, lying on his back. Everything feels...numb. His cheeks are wet. So is the inside of his legs. The office is empty and silent save himself and—

"You pissed yourself," Roman informs him offhandedly from his place in an armchair off to the side. "Though I've seen men piss themselves from fear many times, so I must admit to being impressed that it took _burning off your flesh_ for you to do so."

Dick rolls onto his side and vomits. The movement shifts his entire body and suddenly his chest is alight with pain, throbbing and screaming at him and he cries out, hand instinctively flying up to protect the injured area. But that's instantly shown to be a mistake when his fingers brush the blackened and blistering skin, his flayed nerves _screeching_ their protest at having been touched.

Roman makes a noise of disgust. Dick can still smell burning skin.

"Carson's on his way," Roman tells him next. Is the room spinning? It feels like it's spinning. His head is so _light._ "He'll make sure that gorgeous new feature of yours heals in the right way. Wouldn't want the letters to get messed up so we have to do it again, would we?"

Dick retches, stomach rebelling.

Roman laughs softly, and then stands up, heading towards the door. He pauses momentarily, looking down at Dick like an artist admiring their handiwork, humming with pleasure. "I'll make sure you're brought to the bedroom after he's done; we should celebrate, don't you think?"

And then Dick is alone, shaking on the ground, the newly branded _RS_ throbbing painfully over his heart.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~No editing we die like a writer who decided to rewrite half of this chapter at two in the morning on the day it's supposed to be posted.~~  
>   
>  ~~I'll check it over sometime today for any glaring issues. After sleep.~~  
>   
>  I was listening to the playlist while working on this chapter, and there's one song that really stuck out as, like, something of a _theme_ for this chapter. Or just really fits the vibe. So check out _Broken_ by Isak Danielson (And my thanks to [flowersfromancientgreece](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowersfromancientgreece) for sharing that song with me!)

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, Bruce and the rest of the heroes of Gotham ~~minus one~~ receive word of Nicola Maroni's death.

For them, this has nothing to do with Dick. Even when learning that Black Mask is the one rumored to be responsible for the death, they have no reason to guess at Dick's involvement in the murder. They have no reason to wonder how Dick's handling it, if he's okay.

To them, this is Black Mask making a drastic step. One that doesn't make sense, when looking at the balance of the Gotham criminal underworld. They know something's up with that, but they don't know how truly possessive Roman Sionis is. They don't know that Nicola had been pining for quite a while, and Dick had allowed a few soft moments to be shared between them, wishing for something good in a very dark world.

They decide to keep an eye on the situation, but they have bigger things on their plate than Nicola Maroni's death. The boy was a nobody, a nothing, despite who his father was. He was never going to take over the Maroni empire, he was never going to be a criminal mastermind. His death, in the grand scheme of things, is barely a drop in the ocean.

(In another world, one where Roman Sionis never comes across Dick Grayson in a bar, one where Dickie Wayne never goes dancing at The Tavern as part of an undercover mission, Nicola Maroni would one day decide—with the help of his uncle—to leave Gotham, and the half-life that it provides for him.

He would go to Paris, and spend his days in the Louvre studying the art his mother always told him about, but that he'd never seen for himself. Then he'd go to Italy, city to city, exploring the country his family always sung the praises of, but he'd never actually set foot in before. He would settle, eventually, in Venice, working in a small glassblower's shop, his free time dedicated to painting.

He would not quite be _happy,_ not so far from his family, not when this life means he'd never see his little brothers grow up. But he'd be safe from the world of his father, and he'd be free. And, back in Gotham, Dick Grayson would be, too.

But that's a far nicer world than this one.)

* * *

On Thursday afternoon, Bruce and the rest of the heroes of Gotham ~~minus one~~ receive a fragment of a message sent to the batcomputer.

It's gibberish, nothing more than a few words and numbers, but they know it has meaning. Even more so when they trace the source back to Roman Sionis' penthouse.

"It could be a trap of some kind," Barbara suggests, her face up on the screen as she communicates from the clock tower. "Or not a trap, but Black Mask just attempting to mess with us."

"I wouldn't put that past him," Jason agrees. "Sending this to distract us, making us focus on something worthless while he does something else. Or just to fuck with our heads."

"Or it's from Dick," Tim says. "And something is very wrong."

"What would make him risk sending a message?" Stephanie asks. "Like, Mask kinda has him by the—I mean, there's a lot riding on this, for Dick. If he sent this, that means it's gotta be important, right?"

Bruce's lips press into a thin line. "That's what I'm afraid of. Dick wouldn't risk our identities or his own safety unless he truly thought he _had_ to do this."

"I'm also concerned by the fact that it's a partial message," Barbara says. "The way it's mangled—their security tried to stop this from getting out. Which means if it _was_ Dick sending this, they know he did it."

That settled over the group like a heavy weight.

"Do you think he's...okay?" Tim asks hesitantly.

No one says anything.

Silence falls.

* * *

The rest of Thursday passes in something of a blur for Dick.

Carson, Roman's private doctor, arrives at some point, having Dick lie down on the bed as he examines the wound on Dick's chest. Dick still feels sick, dizzy with pain, and tries to focus on the man's face instead of the pain.

The doctor isn't cruel at least, his expression grave as he carefully treats the...the _brand_ to the best of his ability. Distantly, Dick can hear Carson talking to someone else, explaining how to care for this in the coming days, but Dick lets it wash over him, focusing on the furrow between Carson's eyes, the lines around his mouth.

Dick's never really minded Carson. It's impossible to _like_ anyone here, to _like_ someone who helps Roman hurt him, but Carson's role has always been to ease the hurt a little, to make things feel better. Sure, that's just his job, but he could easily be less caring in his job than he is. He takes care to make treatment as painless as possible, and Dick can appreciate that. It would be all too easy for Carson to do just the opposite.

Fuck knows Roman probably wouldn't stop him.

"Dick?"

Dick claws his way back to awareness, blinking up at the face swimming above him. The furrow, the lines.

"I'm going to give you some morphine, alright? Just to take the edge off for today. I've left step by step instructions for how to treat the brand in the coming days, as well, and I'll be back tomorrow to check for any signs of infection. We'll go from there, alright?"

Dick nods. "I..." Dick starts, voice weak. "I have a...high tolerance. For meds."

One corner of Carson's mouth ticks up, but it doesn't look like amusement. "I know, Dick. I've treated you before."

Oh, right. He's been with Roman for quite a while now, hasn't he?

There's a pinch on Dick's arm, a rush of something cool, and then the artificial, familiar feeling of numb euphoria begins to hit him, the pain fading away from his awareness.

His eyes slide shut with a quiet breath, but Carson pries them back open, shining a penlight in one then the next. He lifts Dick's wrist in his hand, checking his pulse, and then nods, seemingly satisfied.

Carson looks away, says to somebody else, "Go easy today, please. If you really want this to heal correctly, you need to not—"

"I got it, Doc." Dick squeezes his eyes shut at the familiar voice. He wants to be far away from that voice. "You can go now."

Carson sighs sharply through his nose and then gets to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dick."

Dick waves goodbye, or he thinks he does. Maybe his hand just flops back and forth across the bed sheets. Coordination seems to have abandoned him. He's never liked this part of morphine; the removal of pain is excellent, the euphoria can be amusing, but the lack of control has always bothered him.

Show him a hero who actually likes that part, though. He doubts anyone does.

The bed dips, and his legs are pushed apart. A weight settles between them, hands settling high up on his thighs and stroking lightly.

"What a sight you make," Roman sighs with pleasure, and suddenly Dick is seventeen again, drugged and pliant, a man twenty years his senior taking advantage.

He barely even notices when Roman enters him. He barely notices the hot trail of his tongue across Dick's chest, just barely grazing the edges of the brand he put there not an hour earlier. He knows Roman is speaking, but he lets himself ride the wave of the drugs in his system, the words gibberish and meaningless in his brain.

There's a warm rush of liquid inside of him, a deep kiss pressed to his slack mouth.

And then...nothing.

* * *

Dick stares at his chest in the mirror the next morning, forcing himself to look at the brand.

He'd retched, when he first removed the bandage and got a look at it. But he rinsed his mouth out and steeled himself, making himself look again. He plans to stand here until the sight doesn't make him want to vomit, until he can look at it without feeling like he's a bare moment away from screaming until his lungs give out.

Moving hurts, he's figuring out. Quite a lot of movement requires the shifting of the muscles in your chest, the simplest of shifts, the slightest of motions. He feels the brand all over each time, unable to escape the reminder that Roman has truly marked him as _his._

So he needs to get himself past the feeling. He needs to make the feeling have no impact on him. Because Roman wants it to, of course. He wants Dick to spend every second perfectly, _extremely_ aware of what's happened, of the punishment for disobedience. He wants this to crush whatever's left of Dick's spirit.

Dick can't say it's not working. He can't say he's...not affected by this. That he can't help but think about how permanent this is, how the collar was one thing, but a _brand_ is...an entire other level. How he'll never spend another day without a reminder of who he is now, where he belongs.

But he'll be damned if the sight of it makes him vomit. He can get control over that. He can take that small amount of power away from Roman.

It's barely anything, but Dick will take what he can get.

He hears footsteps, and then Roman comes up behind him, stepping close. Dick doesn't look at him, gaze still fixed on the brand. _RS._ Initials; so very personal. No separation, no _BM_ for Black Mask, or a skull for the False Facers. No, it's Roman's _initials_ forever seared into his skin.

Roman's arm reaches around him, hand stroking up from his bellybutton. Dick flinches as it gets close to the brand, but Roman doesn't try to touch it, hand instead settling around Dick's throat. It's not constricting, not even a hold at all, really. Just resting, feather-light.

Dick's eyes flick up, glancing at the other man through the mirror, and finds Roman's attention fixed on the brand, as well. His lips are curved in a small, pleased smile, eyes hooded. His other hand finds Dick's hip, the touch just as light as the one around his neck.

Roman's eyes slide up towards his face, meeting Dick's gaze. His smile grows just a little, and then his eyes travel right back down, drawn to the letters on Dick's skin.

"Beautiful," the man breathes. He presses a gentle kiss to Dick's shoulder, then another a little further up, then one to the curve of Dick's neck right below his hand. His hand slips away, instead using it to tilt Dick's head towards him.

The kiss is barely more than a brush of Roman's lips against his, chaste in a way Roman has _never_ been. Dick hesitantly kisses back, and feels Roman's thumb stroke gently across his cheek.

Roman ends the kiss without any attempt to deepen it, not answering the questioning look in Dick's eyes. Roman kisses the line of Dick's jaw, still so _soft,_ and then his temple, before drawing back.

Dick holds still, trying to not tense in preparation of whatever's sure to follow, but Roman doesn't try to start anything. He simply gives one last, lingering look to the brand, and then pulls away.

"Carson will be here soon," the man says. "So don't bandage that up."

Dick nods mutely and then watches Roman walk away, feeling out of sorts, off-balance. Unsettled. Confused.

 _Get it together, Grayson,_ Dick chastises himself. _So he was gentle, that's nothing to get freaked out over. Just enjoy the fact that he didn't hurt you._

He heads back into the bedroom to get dressed, leaving the button-down he pulls on open to give the injury some space to breathe, and for faster access considering Carson is going to examine him soon.

When Dick reaches the dining room, he finds Carson sitting at the table with Roman, the pair of them talking. They both look up when Dick arrives, two pairs of eyes flicking down to his chest. But while Carson's gaze is critical, Roman's is almost obsessive, barely able to look away.

"Ah, Dick. You're looking well." _For someone who less than twenty-four hours ago got forcibly branded,_ is what he doesn't say.

Dick smiles tightly, offering a short nod, and follows when Carson says, "Why don't we go to the living room?"

Carson sits next to him on the sofa and Dick shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, immediately sucking in a sharp breath as that tugs on the brand and sends a flare of pain traveling through his upper body.

"How's the pain?" Carson asks, and Dick ignores Roman reclining on the opposite sofa, trying to turn his attention fully to Carson's examination.

When it's done, after Carson has declared him infection free so far, offered him some pain medication, gone through the care routine again, and rebandaged the brand, Dick leaves his shirt off, knowing by just looking at it that he doesn't have it in him to get his arms through the sleeves again.

Roman stands, crossing the distance to sit next to Dick instead. Dick eyes him warily as the man lifts his button-down, sliding the material through his fingers before gently taking ahold of Dick's wrist, lifting it.

"Roman—" Dick starts, once again feeling off-balance.

Roman shushes him, pressing a kiss to the inside of Dick's wrist, and then begins to slide his arm into the sleeve. It stings, as Dick knew it would, the movement of his arm pulling at the muscles and skin of his peck, and thus tugging at the brand. But Roman goes slowly, carefully moving the shirt up his am until the collar sits where it's supposed to. And then without a word he switches to Dick's other side, bringing the shirt around his back, repeating the same slow process with his second arm.

"There," Roman murmurs when he's done, leaning in to kiss Dick's neck. He's still holding Dick's wrist, but the grip is light enough that Dick could break it with barely any effort. Dick doesn't, though. Of _course_ he doesn't. He holds still as Roman begins to leave a trail of kisses up his neck, along his jaw, before finally capturing Dick's lips with his own.

It's not chaste like it was in the bathroom, but it's nowhere _close_ to Roman's normal level of force. He cups Dick's cheek, tilts Dick's head just a little to make the kiss easier. It's slow, sensual, not _demanding_ anything.

It's...nice, almost, and it makes his heart pound with anxiety. Because Roman isn't _nice,_ not ever. But today he's been so...so...

Roman makes a soft sound of pleasure into Dick's mouth and his hand slips from Dick's cheek, sliding down and around to press between Dick's back and the sofa. He pulls Dick closer, carefully— _so fucking carefully—_ moving him to straddle his lap, never breaking the kiss. His hand slips underneath his shirt, warm in the small of Dick's back, and Dick shivers.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, Dick places them on Roman's shoulders, squeezing at them as Roman's other hand clasps lightly over the nape of Dick's neck, fingers rubbing gentle circles into his skin.

It's a good kiss. It's a good _everything._ Dick wishes he would stop, wishes he would—

What, wishes he would _hurt_ him? That's so ridiculous. He's spent _months_ being practically tortured, and now he gets a reprieve and he can't handle it? No, this is _good._ Maybe Roman has an ulterior motive, but does it _matter_ right now? The brand is still in the first stages of healing, still painful; he should be _thankful_ Roman's in a good mood, or whatever is causing this. This isn't a _bad thing._ It's not a bad thing. It's _not._

The hand in the small of Dick's back shifts, fingers trailing fire across his skin as they come around to the front. Roman undoes Dick's pants and slips his hand inside, drawing out Dick's cock. He gives a few, slow strokes, and then lets go, reaching into his own pocket and pulling out a small bottle of lube.

Roman reaches up, taking one of Dick's hands from his shoulders. He kisses his pulse point as he lowers it, and then squirts some of the lube onto Dick's palm.

"Stroke yourself for me, baby," Roman whispers, nipping at Dick's bottom lip before pulling back just a little. "Make yourself feel good for me."

Dick's eyes dart over Roman's face, searching for the _meaning_ behind this, searching for any sign that this is about to get rough for him, but Roman just looks...well, there's lust, of course there is. The possessiveness that Dick always expects. But it's all so much _tamer_ than he's used to, like a simmering heat rather than a raging fire.

That fire always threatens to consume Dick, burning pieces of him away each time. This is...good, isn't it? It's _good._

Roman doesn't snap at him impatiently, when Dick doesn't move right away. Just drags his gaze up and down Dick's body, heated but not _destructive._

Dick wraps a hand around himself, letting out a slow, calming breath. He starts to stroke, moving his hand the way he likes, working to bring himself to hardness. His head tips back, a soft moan escaping him, and Roman leans in to kiss his neck. Dick can feel him start to suck what will surely turn into bruises, but it's a pleasant tingle as opposed to the _biting_ that Roman tends to enjoy.

When Dick's completely hard, Roman undoes his own pants and pulls out his cock. He takes Dick's lube-slicked hand and brings it to his erection, letting out a pleased breath when Dick follows the request and wraps his fingers around it, beginning to stroke the way he knows _Roman_ likes.

Roman bucks up into his grip, recapturing Dick's mouth in a passionate kiss, pulling Dick closer. Sparks shoot up Dick's spine as Roman takes him in hand, hips bucking.

"I—Roman, I'm gonna—" Dick says breathlessly.

"Come for me, baby," Roman groans. Dick moans and does as he's told, his release splattering across the material of Roman's shirt.

Roman comes soon after, pulling Dick into a deep kiss as he spills himself, grunting out a moan.

They stay like that for a few moments, panting, coming down. Dick blinks down and sees the way his cum is soaking into Roman's shirt, and feels a spike of anxiety; fuck, Roman will be angry for dirtying his expensive shirt—

Roman glances down as well, clearly taking in the state of them, and then looks away like it's nothing, kissing Dick again. Dick doesn't even close his eyes, too startled, too _shocked,_ by what just happened to be able to settle completely.

Why is Roman acting like this? Why is he behaving like they're...like they're...

"So good," Roman murmurs, breaking the kiss. He caresses Dick's neck, then down a little further. His fingers brush over the bandage protecting the brand, touch light enough that Dick can't even feel it. "So good," he says again, attention now clearly fixed on the brand.

"I—" Dick starts, then clears his throat. It's good to get ahead of these things, he's found. "I'm sorry about your shirt."

"Hm?" Roman glances down again, gaze sweeping over his cum-stained shirt, and his mouth twists in distaste. Dick braces himself, but Roman only says, "Things happen," as he looks back up to Dick chest, lingering there for a moment before his eyes go up further to meet Dick's.

His fingers kneed at the nape of Dick's neck, gentle and soothing.

"Go eat breakfast," Roman instructs. "I'll see you later."

Dick nods hesitantly and starts to draw back. Roman's hands let him go easily, and the entire time Dick walks away from him, he can't help but continue to wait for the other shoe to drop, for Roman to ruin all of this gentleness.

The other shoe doesn't drop.

Dick doesn't know why that makes him feel worse.

* * *

The rest of the day, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after, all follow in much the same fashion.

Roman is so _easy_ with him, no snapping, no irritated looks, no rough grabs or demanding "suggestions". He kisses Dick like they have all the time in the world, like kissing him _matters._ His touch is always gentle, _guiding_ rather than _forcing._ He seems to genuinely be taking Dick's pleasure into account, not once mocking Dick for getting off.

And then there are the other things, the things that have nothing to do with sex but are suddenly so _good._

When Dick comes to meals, Roman stands to greet him. At night they watch TV together, Roman's hand playing with Dick's hair, making amused comments about the sitcom to Dick, talking to him casually like this is a normal thing. He doesn't once bring out a leash, or any of his toys. He doesn't order Dick to stay where he is when he has to leave for meetings. He kisses him goodbye when Dick has to leave for class.

It's all so... _normal._ Like a—a _relationship,_ like he's _choosing_ to be with Roman, spend his time with Roman. And it gives him the wildest sense of whiplash, going from Roman's overbearing, controlling presence, with forceful sex and fucking _branding him,_ to—this. This, where Roman is treating him like a human being. Not only that, but is treating him truly _well._

Every single thing he does, every slow kiss and gentle brush of his fingers over Dick's skin and companionable smile, all of it makes Dick's skin crawl, makes him feel so uncomfortable. And he doesn't understand _why,_ he doesn't understand why he can't bask it in while it happens.

Isn't this what he's been praying for? Hasn't he been spending day after day after _day_ wanting nothing more than for Roman to stop abusing him? Hasn't he been begging for some sort of reprieve?

So _why_ does this nice treatment bother him so much?

He should just enjoy it for however long it lasts. He _should._ If Roman's going to be nice to him, if he's going to treat him like he's a real fucking person, then Dick should _enjoy it._

And maybe even Roman's hit his limit. Dick didn't think that was possible, thought Roman ran on a never-ending stream of sadism. But here Roman is, four days in, never showing any signs of stopping any time soon. He's not impatient or smug. He seems...content.

So maybe, after the branding, Roman is satisfied. Maybe that's what this is. Maybe Roman saw Dick marked as his, _permanently his,_ and that did something to him. Brought something out in him. Or pushed back something else. Or somehow made it all...okay?

_Richard, if that surprises you, you haven't been paying attention._

The very idea is nauseating. The very concept of it leaves Dick wanting to vomit.

But Roman told him about...Circe. About the woman he loved, the woman he permanently disfigured. Roman saw nothing wrong with that, saw no reason that shouldn't make sense. He scarred the woman he loved for—in his eyes—betraying him. That was that.

_You haven't been paying attention._

Is this how Roman loves? How much pain did he dole out to Circe before that final event happened, that he considered reasonable to treat someone he loved? Was he obsessive, possessive, jealous? Was he sadistic and controlling? Did he take extreme pleasure from seeing Circe kneeling before him, crying and hurt?

This whole time, is this what Roman thinks love is supposed to be? No, he _knows_ it's wrong, he _knows_ it is because he goes to such lengths to hide it from the rest of the world. He can't possibly think this is normal.

But that...that doesn't mean it's not how _he_ loves, right or wrong.

Dick hates that he doesn't know, that he can't tell, that he's _confused._ He wasn't confused before. He doesn't think he was, at least. But he sure as hell is now.

And it's so much harder to believe Roman is nothing more than a sadist when he pushes inside of Dick oh-so-carefully, when he spends half an hour prepping him, stretching him slowly, brushing his prostate and sticking his fingers in until Dick is close to begging for him to enter him. It's so much harder to believe when Roman laughs at a stupid joke from a stupid sitcom, his grip gentle as he pulls Dick to lean against his side.

Dick just—he just wants it to _stop._ He can't handle this softness, he can't handle it, he doesn't _want_ it. And he doesn't know what's wrong with him that he can spend three months handling daily abuse and degradation and yet four days of being treated with compassion and fondness has him ready to peel off his skin.

What is _wrong_ with him?

Roman's talking about something, something about his day that normally Dick knows he'd listen very closely to simply by vigilante habit to gather information, but right now Roman's also holding Dick's hand, thumb stroking across Dick's knuckles, and that's distracting enough that Dick is barely making out anything Roman is saying, gaze fixed on that thumb, on that hand, on the gentle way Roman holds him.

They shower before bed, and Roman rubs shampoo into Dick's hair, then conditioner, then scrubs body wash all over his body, trailing kisses across the line of his shoulders.

Dick can barely _think;_ he feels like he's going to explode.

Why is this so upsetting to him? Why is _this_ what he can't live with?

_What is wrong with me?_

Roman lays him out on the bed, braced above him on a forearm, kissing him slowly. One hand is working between Dick's legs, thoroughly lubed and stretching, making sure Dick is truly ready to take his cock.

And Dick is shaking beneath him, but not from pain or even pleasure, but from how _good_ it is, and he doesn't want good, he can't have good from Roman, he can't handle Roman touching him like he's important to him, kissing him like he's _somebody_ to him—

Roman gets himself inside of Dick, rocking his hips forward. Their breaths mingle together, their mouths barely an inch apart. Roman fucks slow and deep, pleasurable with each thrust.

Roman kisses Dick's temple, his cheek, his neck. "Perfect," he breathes against Dick's chest, and Dick starts to cry.

He can't take this. He can't, he doesn't know why, but he can't do this, he can't, he can't, he can't—

"Stop," Dick chokes out. "Guh, R-Roman, st...op. Please, stop."

Roman draws back a little, just enough to give them both a little space and look Dick in the eye. His brow furrows, confused and almost _concerned,_ thumb wiping away a tear from Dick's face.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"Just stop," Dick sobs out. "Please, stop it, please—"

"Stop what?" That same confused, concerned voice. Dick hates it. He hates it so much.

"You're—you're being so—can you just—don't be so—"

Roman shushes him. He presses a soft kiss to Dick's jaw, and Dick lets out a keen of distress. "Baby, you're not making any sense."

 _"Stop being so nice,"_ Dick gets out, squeezing his eyes shut. Sobs are hitching his chest, making it very challenging to breathe. Panic has come up out of nowhere and taken hold of his heart. "I don't understand, I can't—just stop—don't be nice, I don't—"

Roman shushes him again, like someone attempting to soothe a wild animal. His thumb strokes softly over Dick's cheek. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Dick."

Dick. _Dick._ He called him—he—he just—

"You want me to...stop being nice? But doesn't this feel good?" Roman rocks his hips forward as if to prove his point, pleasure shooting through Dick's body as he hits his prostate with deadly precision, Dick's eyes flying back open.

"Stop, stop, stop, _please, Roman, I can't—"_

"You want me to be rough, baby?"

"Just stop this," Dick sobs. "Just stop wh-whatever this is. I don't—I can't—I'm—"

"I don't know, baby. I might need some _convincing,_ here. You seem a little out of sorts."

"How can I convince you?" Dick manages to ask, but his voice shakes the whole way through, barely holding back how much he wants to cry. "How can—what do you—why—"

"So how do you want me to treat you?" Roman asks, cocking his head as if confused. "Not like this, not nicely. Tell me exactly what you want, baby. You want me to treat you like a...?"

Dick blinks up at him, eyelashes clumped with tears, trying to regulate his breathing. What does Roman want from him? He's never hesitated to hurt him before, always taken every opportunity. So why is he...

_You want me to treat you like a...?_

Oh.

"A whore," Dick whimpers. "I want you to—to treat me like a wh-whore, Roman."

Roman hums, a curious noise. "Why's that, sweetheart? Why should I treat _you_ like a whore?"

The specification, he wants— "'Cause'm a whore. 'M a whore, so you should...you—you should— _please,_ just stop please—"

Roman's hips _snap_ forward, forcing himself quickly inside of Dick, and Dick gasps, sucking in air. "You sure, baby? This is what you want?"

_I just want you to stop, please, whatever you want, whatever you want—_

"Yes," Dick cries. "Y-yes."

"Why?" Roman asks again, a gruff quality creeping into his voice. He snaps his hips forward again. It hurts. Dick's back arches slightly. "Why do you want it like this? Remind me."

"'Cause'm a whore," Dick replies immediately.

"That's right," Roman growls, and then he truly begins.

Dick can't say he's forgotten what it's like to have Roman _fuck_ him, because it's only been a few days. But it's just as startling a change as the gentleness was, even though Dick asked for this.

Not only asked. He _begged._

Dick tries to keep breathing, tries to deal with the fact that this is what he wanted as Roman takes what he wants from Dick's body. His hands grip at Dick's thighs, forcing them wider, fingers digging in. He yanks Dick towards him with every thrust, just as uncaring as he would've been before all this, and Dick doesn't understand the relief blossoming in his chest.

Why is he like this? Why is he so...so...

Roman starts to slow, to even out.

_Nononononono—_

"No, Roman, please—"

"I don't know, sweetheart. Don't feel the need to do this for _me._ I might need some further convincing."

Dick lets out a distressed noise. Why can't Roman just...why can't this just _end?_

"Please fuck me h-harder. _Daddy,_ Daddy, please, fuck me, please fuck y-your whore, please, please—"

And Roman does.

He carves bruises into Dick's skin with his fingers and mouth, harsh bites to every piece of skin Roman can reach. And he's speaking, he's saying the most awful things, and Dick soaks all of it in, he doesn't fight, he just lies there and lets Roman use him like he...like he _begged_ him to.

Roman pulls out and comes over Dick's stomach and chest, some of it landing over the brand's bandage. And the look on Roman's face—vicious delight, possession, hunger, _victory._

Dick closes his eyes and tries to pretend to not exist for a little while.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok! So! This chapter is a bit of a doozy. In terms of psychological torment, I would probably classify this as the worst of the series (which is, I know, saying something). However! Since this is the worst, that means things can only go up from here, yes? Can you picture the devilish smile on my face? I hope so.
> 
> But I _do_ promise you something next chapter that'll ~~kinda~~ make up for this one, pinky swear! And if this author's note concerns you about the contents of this chapter, you can message me at all the usual places and I can let you know what happens. Safety first, my dudes.
> 
> Now on with the show!

Bruce walks calmly towards the elevator bank, his attention on the one at the end, the private one that goes directly up to the penthouse of the building. There are two men standing in front of it, guarding, and he can tell by the wary glance they exchange that they recognize him.

"Hello," Bruce greets when he reaches them. He keeps his demeanor calm, perfectly at ease. If he acts mad or wound tight, then they'll immediately be on guard, and less likely to comply. "I'm here to see Mr. Sionis and my son."

The pair of men exchange another glance. They're both armed, shoulder holsters hidden beneath their suit jackets. They look uncomfortable in the fancy wear, but this is a building where anything less would make them stick out like sore thumbs, and Sionis is quite specific about how he wants to be perceived by the world.

"Do you have an appointment?" one of them asks hesitantly, and in any other circumstance Bruce would be amused.

"No," Bruce says. "But if you call up I'm sure Mr. Sionis will grant permission. I'll wait while you do."

Stating it like it's something they _will_ do, not a question. The pair exchange another look, and seem to come to the correct decision, because one pulls out a cellphone and takes a few steps away, talking quietly.

He comes back after a minute, sliding the cellphone back into his pocket, and nods. "He said you can go up," he says as he pushes the elevator button, the doors sliding open.

Bruce nods his thanks and steps between the men, watching them disappear from view as the doors close once more.

Since receiving the message from Sionis' penthouse a week ago, the one that was either a trap or a sign of Dick's rebellion, Bruce has been overly concerned over what state his son might be in. The worry could be for nothing, at least no more than usual. But if it _was_ Dick who set the message, and Sionis knew about it...Well, Black Mask isn't exactly known for his mercy.

Bruce has spent over three months trying his best to not think about the specifics of what Dick must be going through. Because if he lingers on it, if he lingers on the things that _monster_ is doing to his son—there are very few people in the world that Bruce can genuinely say he wants to kill for what they've done. Joker has always been top of that list. Black Mask is quickly sliding into a close second place.

But these past few days, Bruce has been unable to distract himself with other things. It has been _impossible_ to focus on work, or the horrible accusations that follow him every moment, or what Damian must be thinking of him, or how Tim is handling being forced to out himself. How can he think about any of that, when it's highly probable that Dick attempted to do something noble and got hurt for it?

So he's reached his breaking point. If he has to spend another day unsure if his son is even in one piece, he's going to do something he regrets.

They cannot afford rash actions. There's too much at stake. But he can't just sit at the Manor _wondering_ anymore. He'll lose his fucking mind.

The elevator reaches the penthouse, doors sliding open to reveal Roman Sionis standing in the entryway. His hands are in the pockets of his slacks, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows. Off to the side are a couple of his men, eyeing Bruce warily. One of them has his hand resting on his weapon. Bruce wonders, idly, what Sionis told them.

"Are you armed?" Sionis asks.

"I don't like guns."

Sionis doesn't roll his eyes, but it looks like a near thing. "I didn't _ask_ if you were carrying a gun, I _asked_ if you're _armed."_

No, Bruce isn't armed. He figured there was a chance of being searched, and he didn't want any of his technology to fall into Sionis' hands, nor for any of the criminal's men to see anything that would tie Bruce to Batman.

"No," Bruce says, "I'm not armed."

Sionis tilts his head, maybe debating the truthfulness of that statement, and then glances at his men, flicking a hand to dismiss them. They go without question, but they don't look happy about it.

"I'd like to assume you're smart enough to not attack me in my own home," Sionis says. "Especially not with...everything _else_ on the table, hm?"

Bruce isn't here for a fight, despite how much he'd love to swing his fist into that smug expression. The last time he saw Sionis in person was that gala where the man shoved a photo of Dick into his face, forcing Bruce to _see_ what this monster is doing whenever he wants. Bruce would love nothing more than to beat Sionis into a bloody pulp. He could do it, too; Sionis might know how to fight, but he's nowhere _close_ to Bruce's level.

But if he does, that's likely to blow back on Dick. They saw what Sionis did after they screwed up his deal on the docks, how he _hurt_ Dick because of their actions. Bruce can't risk that, just for the petty satisfaction of seeing Sionis bleed.

Sionis must take his silence for agreement, because he turns around and starts walking away, easily showing Bruce his back.

"Want a drink?" Sionis calls back to him, and Bruce forces himself to follow.

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

The man leads him to a double-doored room that has a pair of guards standing outside of it, both of whom step easily aside with a wave of Sionis' hand.

Bruce can't help but catalogue everything when they enter, and must admit to being surprised that Sionis would bring him into what appears to be his office. Of course, both of them know he's not going to do anything, not going to attempt to go searching. So maybe this is just Sionis dangling it in his face, the knowledge that this room contains quite a few secrets that Batman wouldn't mind getting his hands on, but that Bruce can do nothing about.

"So," Sionis says as he pours himself a drink from the wet bar, then walking over to lean against his desk, crossing his ankles. "What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?"

"I'd like to see Dick," Bruce says calmly.

Sionis hums. "And why's that?"

Bruce narrows his eyes, and Sionis cocks an eyebrow.

"It's a genuine question, Wayne. We've passed three months, now, with Richard being in my _loving_ care." Bruce clenches his jaw. "So why are you here _now?"_ Sionis tilts his head, something of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Did something happen that made you _worried?"_

Obviously referencing the partial message they received, but it's still unclear whether Sionis did it on purpose to mess with them or if it really was Dick.

"Can I see him," Bruce says slowly, "or not?"

Sionis considers him for a long moment, and then shrugs a shoulder, heading back towards the door. Bruce follows him silently, trying to keep himself calm. If Sionis is taking him to see Dick, then Dick must be fine, right? Or maybe Sionis would take pleasure in showing Bruce what happened if Dick in fact tried to betray him. A warning for them all, for the future.

God, Bruce really hopes not.

Sionis leads him to a large living area, with a few sofas, a big TV, and a large wall of glass windows. There's a wall with shelves built into it, filled with books and random items, and a coffee table between the sofas that is immaculately clean save for a coffee mug on a coaster.

As they walk closer, Bruce sees Dick lying on the sofa with its back to them. He appears to be asleep, leaning back against one of the arms of the sofa, lips parted with quiet breaths.

He looks alright, or at least no worse than he has before. He looks so _young,_ though, dressed in pajama pants and a blue sweatshirt, his black hair curling against his forehead, body relaxed in sleep. Bruce forgets, sometimes, that Dick is only twenty-six years old; for all that he's been through and all that he's accomplished, he's still barely more than a kid.

At twenty-six he should be going to parties and traveling the world and meeting new people, not chained to a psychopath's side.

"See?" Sionis says, and Dick doesn't even twitch, despite the fact that Sionis didn't lower his voice at all. "Perfectly fine."

Bruce purses his lips. The bruise on Dick's face is fading, far less vivid than when it made its debut, and there aren't any other injuries that Bruce can see. Emphasis on _that he can see,_ because he's not optimistic enough to believe that Dick's completely without harm. Sionis is a textbook sexual sadist, and has Dick at his mercy.

Or complete lack thereof.

"What was the message he tried to send?" Bruce asks.

Sionis sends him an amused smile. "Do you honestly think I would tell you? There's a reason we stopped it from going through completely." His eyes flick briefly towards Dick, who still hasn't reacted at all. "And a reason he was punished for his actions."

Bruce draws in a slow breath, and lets it out.

Well, at least that's confirmation that it was Dick responsible, not Sionis.

"Why did you kill Nicola Maroni?"

Sionis laughs. "What is this, an impromptu interrogation? Is the Bat coming out to play? Honestly I'm impressed it took this long; you've never struck me as one to let _sentiment_ come before your mission."

Bruce didn't come here as Batman, and didn't plan on doing any interrogating. He's only here to make sure his son is in one piece. But when an opportunity presents itself to get answers, it's not like he can turn it down.

Maybe he'd be a better father if he could, if he kept his focus solely on Dick right now. But would that make him a worse hero?

"Why isn't he responding?" Bruce asks, concern creeping inside. Dick's always been an incredibly light sleeper, something that being a vigilante only honed. The fact that he hasn't even twitched at the conversation happening just a few feet away from him is worrisome.

Sionis waves a dismissive hand. "He's fine. I put a sedative in his tea."

Bruce narrows his eyes. "Why would you do that?" he asks sharply.

Sionis walks around the sofa towards Dick, making Bruce tense, and comes to a stop on the other side of the arm of the sofa, looking down at Dick's face upside down.

"He had a rough night," Sionis says, eyes flicking up briefly to offer Bruce a smirk. "Didn't sleep that well, poor thing. Looked absolutely _exhausted_ this morning, and I don't know _why_ but fucking him didn't seem to help"

Bruce's lips curl back, his hands curling into fists. "Why can't you just let him go? What is this _obsession?_ Are you really still so pissed about me buying out your company? That was almost _twenty years ago."_

Sionis' eyebrows slowly go up. "You think this is about _you?"_ He laughs, shaking his head. "And people call _me_ self-centered. No, Wayne, I'm not fucking your son because I hate you, though don't get me wrong I _do_ hate you, even more so since finding out about your nightly activities."

"Then why him?" Bruce grits out. "Go find someone else to abuse, let him go."

"No."

_"Why the hell not?"_

"Because I want him," Sionis says simply.

He looks back down to Dick's sleeping form. "I will admit, the reason I took him in in the first place _was_ because of his connection to you. Having _Bruce Wayne's son_ on his knees for me was—and is—certainly delightful. But he's come into his own, don't you think? He's so much more than that now. And he's _mine."_

He reaches down, hand settling around Dick's throat and nudging his chin up, forcing his head to tilt over the edge of the sofa's arm.

Bruce goes rigid. "Get your hand off of him."

Sionis snorts. "A little late for that, hm? About nine years too late."

The man's hand tightens just a little, and Dick stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. His eyes are glazed over, still hazy from whatever drug Sionis gave him, and he blinks slowly up at the man standing above him.

"Hello," Sionis coos. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Bruce hates this, this facsimile of care. As if Sionis actually gives a shit about Dick. Is this what Dick has to deal with all the time? It's disgusting.

"'M good," Dick says, his voice coming out slurred. He shifts, moving like he wants to pull away, but goes still when Sionis' grip tightens again, tilting his head back further over the edge of the sofa's arm to try to make breathing easier.

The way Dick's neck is now arched reveals something that had been hidden by the sweatshirt, and for a moment Bruce almost can't compute the fact that it's a collar. Dick is wearing a _collar._ He'd had one on in the photo Sionis showed Bruce at the gala, but that had been in a sexual situation. This is just Dick asleep in a common area. Does he...does he _always_ wear it? Has Sionis truly gone that far in trying to stake his claim, collaring Dick like a dog?

Something sparks in Sionis' eyes, his thumb stroking over the skin of Dick's throat, and suddenly Bruce is very aware of how the positioning of Dick's head lines his mouth up perfectly with Sionis' crotch.

"Sionis," Bruce says warningly.

The man looks up at him, something almost challenging in his gaze. Dick's brow furrows at Bruce's voice, clearly confused, but the way Sionis has his grip means Dick can't look around to see if Bruce really is there.

"Problem?" Sionis goads. "Or do you just want a turn?"

Bruce jerks back, revolted, and Sionis chuckles. "No? Hm. Your loss. With all the daddy issues he carries around and how desperate he is to make you happy with him, he'd probably let you."

"You're disgusting," Bruce spits. He hates the implication that he would ever feel that way about his son, or would ever take advantage of Dick's insecurities to force him into something of that nature.

"So I've heard," Sionis snorts, looking unbothered by the insult.

"B?" Dick asks, sounding lost.

Sionis looks back down to him. "He's not here, sweetheart. Why on earth would he visit you?"

"You're a bastard," Bruce snaps, fury filling him. "Leave him alone."

"I think," Sionis says, letting his hand slide off of Dick's throat. Dick doesn't move from where he's been placed. "It's time for you to go. You've seen him, I haven't cut off any limbs; you can go to sleep soundly tonight knowing he hasn't gotten himself killed through his own heroic stupidity."

"Sionis—"

"Leave, Wayne," the man says seriously. "I can have you escorted out, if you prefer; I'm sure the press would have a _field day_ with that."

Bruce looks down at Dick, picturing a scenario where he could call out to him, take him with him. Where he could get him far away from Black Mask without repercussions.

But he can't. He's useless, at the moment. Completely useless to protect his son.

And so he does the only thing he _can_ do right now, the last thing he wants to do—he leaves.

* * *

The next few days show that Roman must've taken Dick's words—his _begging—_ to heart, because he certainly doesn't hold back.

And anytime it hurts, anytime Dick finds himself wishing for it to end, he reminds himself that he asked for this. He wanted this. He forced Roman to give him this, to do it this way. This was all him.

Roman certainly likes reminding him of that, too.

_(And Dick doesn't know why, half asleep, he hallucinates Bruce, the angry tone of his father's voice. He can only imagine it's because he knows Bruce would be disappointed in him. Wouldn't he? Begging Black Mask to treat him like a whore; a hero would never do that. Batman would never be that weak.)_

It's a few days after That Night when Dick returns to the penthouse after being allowed an afternoon to himself (heavily monitored, of course, with only permission to go to a restaurant, eat, and return back) to find Roman sitting with an unfamiliar man in the living room.

He's broad-shouldered and tan, and looks to be somewhere in his early- to mid-thirties. Tall, too, at least six feet. His brown hair is neatly combed, and though he's dressed casually—a gray Henley, dark blue jeans, combat boots—it's clearly expensive clothing, enough so that he doesn't seem out of place in this high-end penthouse but still looks perfectly comfortable.

Roman and the man both look over at Dick when he enters, Roman with a flash of a smirk, the man with a kind smile.

"Hello," the man greets.

"Hi," Dick says cautiously, and glances at Roman for any clue as to what this is.

"Richard, this is Jack," Roman introduces. "He works as a dominant at one of the clubs in the city."

Dick blinks in surprise, still not understanding. He gets what Roman means by _'clubs',_ but he doesn't know why this person is here.

"It's nice to meet you," Dick says nonetheless, offering the man— _Jack,_ apparently—a smile.

Jack doesn't look bothered by Dick's—probably obvious—awkwardness. "I'm going to give you guys a minute," he says, looking over at Roman. "You said your kitchen is down that hallway? Mind if I get a glass of water?"

Roman nods, gesturing down the correct hallway, and says nothing as Jack gets up and walks away. Dick watches and, when he's sure the man is out of hearing range, says, "What's going on, Roman?"

"I've set up something for you, sweetheart. A scene with a professional."

Alarms go off in Dick's head. Roman brought that man here to have _sex_ with Dick? Roman, the personification of possessiveness? Is specifically _paying someone_ to dominate Dick?

"Are you serious?" Dick asks incredulously.

"Oh, very," Roman replies, lips tilting up in amusement. "And don't worry, I was very thorough in my search; Mr. Jack Carroll comes highly recommended. One of the best at what he does."

"That isn't my issue here," Dick says tightly. He has no doubt that Roman would never bring someone to the penthouse whom he hadn't thoroughly vetted. "My issue is that you've brought a stranger here to—to act as my dom, with no prior warning. And considering you..." He clears his throat. "Considering you killed someone for _kissing_ me, you can see how I might find this situation a little suspicious."

"Jack is here at my bequest," Roman says, tone dismissive. "Very different from you making out with some idiot behind my back."

"That still doesn't explain to me _why_ you want this."

"I don't have to explain myself," Roman tells him.

Dick stares at him incredulously. Roman is unmoved.

"I've already sent him the specifications of what this scene will entail, but he will of course want to have you confirm it all. Professionals, you know. They seem to care about the state of consent from their clients."

Roman looks _amused_ by such a concept, and though Dick already knows Roman has no respect for the word _no,_ it's still nausea-inducing to hear him talk like this.

"And you _will_ confirm everything," Roman tells him seriously. "I chose Jack for his specific skillset, and we're going to make use of it."

That. That does not in any way sound good. "And what is his _skillset?"_

Roman smirks at him, and says nothing.

"Roman, come on. You can't be serious about this."

"You keep saying that," Roman sighs, "despite the fact that I have never _once_ backed down. You'd think you'd learn eventually that I am _always_ serious." His eyes flick briefly down to Dick's chest, to the brand hidden beneath his shirt, and then back up.

"I'm not—I'm not that good an actor," Dick says helplessly. "Especially not with someone who does this for a living. I can't pretend to be enthusiastic about this, not well enough to dissuade him from having concerns."

"I already told him you were anxious about this," Roman says. "And slightly embarrassed about wanting this whole thing. That we'd agreed to do this, but it happening today is a surprise. And Jack says that about half of the time his clients like to engage in some form of consent play, so don't be afraid to be as... _resistant_ as you like."

"Jesus Christ," Dick mutters under his breath, lifting a hand to wipe it across his face. "This is actually happening. And you're going to...what? _Watch?"_

"Of course," Roman says with a chuckle. "You honestly think I'd just leave you alone with someone to fuck you? No, I'll be there the entire time, baby."

Dick doesn't have a chance to reply to that, the sound of Jack returning stopping him from any retort.

Jack glances between them, and Dick can see him attempting to read the situation. Dick tries to tame his body language from agitated to anxious, offering the man a hesitant smile, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

He sees Roman incline his head just a tad, approval for Dick's performance.

"Why don't we sit?" Jack suggests, coming back over to the couches. "We can talk."

Dick does so silently, sitting across from the man, Roman in an armchair slightly to the side.

"So," Jack says with a kind smile. "Your boyfriend sent me specifics of what you're hoping to get out of this scene, but I'd like to go over a few things with you before we begin. Is that alright?"

Dick nods. "Yeah, of course. What do you want to know?"

"Why don't we start with what your safeword is."

Okay, this is going to be a very surreal experience. When was the last time Dick used a safeword? He's had sex with professionals before, and with people familiar to the BDSM community. He knows how seriously they take this aspect, as they should. But with Roman...there is no safeword, no hard limits. There is no discussion of what he wants to get out of a scene. No negotiation. There's just...what Roman wants.

"Carnival," Dick says. It's what he used to use, before falling back into Roman's hands. "And the typical stoplight system."

Jack nods. "Good. And hard limits?"

There's only one that Dick thinks Roman wouldn't be okay with; otherwise, he'd want Dick to take whatever this dom has to dole out. "No permanent marks or injuries. Otherwise I'm...I'm game for anything." He hesitates, and then adds, "I would...prefer nothing that draws blood, but in the middle of an intense scene sometimes things happen, so it's far more of a soft limit."

Jack just nods again. "Okay. Now, the things Mr. Sionis listed out seems like you really want to get immersed in the fantasy, with all the force that entails. Would you consider that correct?"

Dick has no idea what he means by "the fantasy", and he can't glance at Roman for guidance because that would surely tip Jack off that something isn't quite right. So Dick masks his confusion by pulling on a bashful, slightly embarrassed look. Jack smiles in return, a crooked, warm little thing.

"Trust me, I've heard it all," the man assures him. "You don't have to be embarrassed. This is why I'm here, after all. I also do want to check in about some of the language, since this can be really hit or miss for people, and can destroy a scene if I haven't interpreted it right, or if they didn't phrase something correctly and it ends up triggering a bad response. So the dialogue your boyfriend sent with the others details—"

"I wrote it with him," Dick interrupts smoothly. Dick doesn't know what _"dialogue"_ Roman came up with, and frankly he doesn't want to know right now. Whatever degrading things he's feeding to the dom to say, it's not like it'll be worse than anything Roman's already said to him. Might as well just hear it within the scene instead of awkwardly before it.

"Alright, good," Jack says, nodding approvingly. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick can see Roman do the same. "Are there any questions you have for me?"

"How long have you been doing this?" Dick asks, partially to stall and partially because he really wants to know.

Jack tilts his head, thinking. "About eight years now. I was involved with this kind of thing before then, but that's when I started doing the character, and started working professionally." He smiles again. "There's quite a lot of people who share your desires, Mr. Grayson, so don't worry about that."

Dick is seriously concerned about what Roman's set up for him. It's obvious this isn't meant to be a regular scene, that there's something particular Jack specializes in, some... _character._ But he can't ask, because he's supposed to have requested this in the first place.

"Call me Dick," Dick says, the corner of his mouth turning up in a dry smile. "I figure we're about to be quite intimate, might as well be on a first name basis."

Jack inclines his head in acceptance, and then looks at Roman. "Now, you said you plan to be in the room, correct?" Roman nods. "Do you intend to participate in any way? I know you said no before, but sometimes things...change, when a relationship is involved. Partners can get...territorial."

Dick works to suppress a laugh, but a snort still escapes him. Both of the other men look over at him, Jack with raised eyebrows and Roman with a dry, unimpressed look.

"Sorry," Dick mumbles. "Roman?"

"I am generally a...territorial person," Roman allows, and Jack huffs an amused breath. "That's why I'm going to be present." He glances back to Dick. "And why he’ll still be wearing my collar during your scene."

Jack doesn’t bat an eye at that requirement. "Alright. Do either of you have any other questions for me before we begin?"

Both Dick and Roman shake their heads.

Jack nods, and stands. "Alright, good. I'm going to go get changed, and you can meet me in the bedroom."

Once he's gone, Dick looks over at Roman helplessly. "What is this, Roman? What _character?_ What does he specialize in? What dialogue?"

"So many questions," Roman says with a smirk.

"Because you’re not giving me any answers!" Dick snaps.

Roman narrows his eyes, displeased with his tone. "Again," he says dangerously, "I don’t have to explain myself to you. And why the sudden change of heart, Richard? I seem to recall you begging me to do whatever I wanted to you; now I want _this._ You wouldn't deny me, would you, sweetheart?"

Dick presses his lips into a thin line.

"Now," Roman says, reaching down to pick a small box up off the floor, opening it to reveal Dick's collar, "you're going to put this back on, we're going to go to the guest bedroom, and no matter what you're going to take what he has to give. Because that's what I'm telling you to do. Because it will make me _happy._ Understand?"

God fucking dammit.

"I understand."

Roman smiles, pleased. "Good."

He stands, offering the box towards Dick, and Dick takes it, pulling the collar out and then setting the box on the couch. He reaches up to remove the choker around his neck that he'd worn out, slipping the collar into its place. Then he stands and follows Roman to the guest bedroom.

There's a familiar black figure standing in the bedroom when they reach it, and Dick jerks to a stop in the doorway, unable to breathe or move or think. Because he shouldn't be here. He shouldn't—

For a few horrible, _horrible_ moments, Dick really thinks it's Batman.

But then the differences register. Dick knows the batsuit like the back of his hand, and this isn't it. Though it's a very, _very_ impressive replica. The person who made this spent quite a lot of care in putting it together, and must've scoured over countless eye-witness accounts of Batman sightings. Probably met Batman at some point, too.

But these ears are longer. The cape is connected lower on the shoulders. The yellow around the bat symbol is a different shade. The armor seems thinner. The boots end higher on the calves. And then there are a handful of small details that Dick can spot, details that prove it's not Bruce's suit.

It's an incredibly good replica, though. He's sure many would be fooled. Dick was, for a few moments. Before he analyzed.

It's Jack, Dick realizes. It has to be Jack. But Dick is so unbelievably unsettled by this, by the presence of the batsuit, a replica though it may be. Batman in any form should not be here, in Roman's space. He _certainly_ shouldn't be in a _bedroom,_ with a _professional dominant_ wearing the suit.

This is so wrong. This is so fucking wrong. Is this seriously the _character_ Jack was referring to? Why on earth would Roman do this?

_Because he likes screwing with you, and this is absolutely designed to do that._

"Roman, can I talk to you for a moment?" Dick asks breathlessly.

"Sure, sweetheart," Roman replies indulgently, and they step back out of the room, Dick shutting the door behind them.

For a moment, they just stare at each other, Roman with raised eyebrows, Dick with them furrowed.

"I will literally do anything," Dick says, voice startlingly loud in the quiet, "in place of doing this."

A slow smile creeps across Roman's face.

"Did you know," Roman says, "that it's apparently a very common fantasy in Gotham? So many people want to be dominated by the Batman. According to Jack the two scenarios that pop up the most are, a) rescued civilian who wants to show Batman how _thankful_ they are, and b) captured criminal who needs to be put in their place." He cocks his head. "Want to take a guess which category this scene is going to fall into?"

Dick closes his eyes, swallowing past the bile.

"So you're really going to make me do this," Dick says hoarsely. "Going to make me—" He huffs a humorless laugh. "Get fucked by Batman?"

"Oh yes."

"Please," Dick begs, opening his eyes again. "Please, Roman, don't make me do this. _Please."_

"Keep all of that begging in mind, sweetheart," Roman tells him with a smirk, completely unmoved. "You're going to need it against Batman's rage."

Dick can see exactly how this is going to play out. The only hard limit he said is no permanent injuries; that means unless he safewords, Jack is going to fulfill the fantasy he was hired to deliver. He's going to be the terrifying Batman, punishing a criminal for their acts. He's going to be rough, and cruel, and he's going to...he's going to have sex with Dick while dressed as Batman.

And there's dialogue. Roman planned out specific dialogue. Dick isn't optimistic enough to think that won't veer into the personal.

"I'll do anything," Dick says again, desperately. "Anything, please, Roman—"

"You're right, you will do anything," Roman agrees. "You'll do this."

Dick searches his face for any indecision, any flicker that Dick could convince him, but there's nothing. He doesn't know why he bothers; of _course_ there's nothing.

Dick takes a few deep breaths, trying to find some calm place inside of him, and then squares his shoulders and opens the door again.

"Okay," Dick says as Jack turns to look at him, expressionless beneath the cowl. "Let's do this. Green."

* * *

Batman slams him against the wall, one hand around his throat, the other gripping his shoulder, thumb firm against his collarbone. It's a controlled shove, designed to force him into place and jar him, but not cause actual injury.

_(Well, Jack knows what he's doing.)_

"Criminal scum," Batman growls, and his grip around Dick's throat tightens, enough to make breathing difficult but not impossible.

_(Dick absolutely doesn't think about how Bruce doesn't say things like that to the people he takes down. He doesn't think about how Jason or Tim would be making a Star Wars joke right about now.)_

_(The growl is pretty on point, actually. It's kind of freaky how on point it is.)_

"I—" Dick tries, trying to keep his breathing even against the challenge.

"Unless what's about to come out of your mouth is an apology," Batman says dangerously, "I don't want to hear another word."

Dick flinches. "I'm sorry," he says hoarsely.

"You're not yet," Batman growls, "but you will be."

Batman's hand leaves his shoulder, reaching down to yank Dick's shirt open. He pulls it roughly from Dick's body, his hand on his throat still keeping Dick pinned. Roman's collar bites into his skin.

_(For the briefest moment, Jack's eyes linger on the brand. Dick wonders what he thinks; is it a sign to him of how complete his and Roman's relationship is, how he's truly given himself over to another person? And what about the scars littering Dick's skin; will Jack take that as further proof that Dick likes things rough?)_

Batman yanks him away from the wall and releases his grip. Dick stumbles, trying to regain his footing, but a harsh shove to his back makes that impossible. He hits the bed, one hand reaching out to catch himself, knees slamming against the side. But then Batman is there, shoving him down, a foot kicking at the backs of his legs to make him crumble, knees slamming against the ground.

One of Batman's hands twists up in Dick's hair, pressing his head firmly against the bed. Dick pants heavily as Batman lines himself up behind him; the costume is thick enough and solid enough that Dick can't really feel anything specific, but he can feel enough to know that Batman's crotch is against his ass.

It makes him shudder.

"Hands behind your back," Batman growls, and Dick rushes to obey, instinctive.

 _(He sounds so much like Bruce, so much like the orders Bruce uses in the field when he_ needs _them to follow commands immediately. And now Dick can only see Jack in his peripheral vision, he can't see all the flaws in the suit like this, and it feels so much like—)_

"At least you can do something right," Batman says. Dick's breath catches.

Batman grabs his wrists in his free hand, tight enough to make Dick wince. He presses, forcing Dick's captured wrists further up his back, far enough that his shoulders begin to ache, protesting the motion.

"Ah," Dick breathes. "Fuck."

"What was that?" Batman growls, and presses harder. Dick gasps. "Well? Nothing to say? Did I finally get you to shut your mouth?"

Dick groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Pathetic," Batman sneers. He kicks Dick's knees apart, stepping between them and pushing himself more firmly against Dick.

"N—please," Dick says desperately.

"Please? _Please?_ Do you think you deserve mercy? After everything you've done, who you've become? You disgust me."

Tears sting Dick's eyes.

 _(He knows it's not real. He knows. It isn't Bruce, it isn't really Batman. It isn't his father. But it sounds like him and from this angle it looks like him and the things he's saying are_ _tailor-made to_ _pick at all the doubts in Dick's brain and they've only just begun but Dick can barely take it—)_

Batman's hand shoves his face more firmly against the bed for a moment before releasing. Dick doesn't dare move from where he's been placed, not that the forced position of his arms allows him any room to move anyway.

The hand returns, but this time it goes beside the other one, gripping at his wrists. There's something there, and it only takes a moment for Dick to identify rope. Batman binds his hands first, tight enough to sting but not to restrict blood flow, and then keeps going up, forcing his forearms together as much as he can behind Dick's back. It pulls Dick's shoulders back, pushing his chest against the bed.

"This is where you belong," Batman growls.

_"Please."_

Batman laughs darkly. His hand strokes up and down Dick's back, the gesture almost gentle, and the drag of the glove against his bare skin makes Dick's breath hitch.

"No one's going to save you," Batman tells him, a dark promise. "Do you honestly think anyone would come for you? You don't deserve it."

_(This has to be Roman's dialogue, it has to be, but knowing that isn't helping at all—)_

"I'm sorry," Dick says. "I'm sorry. Batman, I'm sorry."

"You're going to have to try harder than that. I'm not even _close_ to done with you."

Batman pulls back just a little, and his hands go down to Dick's waist. He reaches under him, popping open the button of Dick's pants and pulling down the zipper. Then he grabs ahold of the waistband and yanks his pants and underwear down. They bunch around his knees, still against the ground, and two large hands squeeze at Dick's ass.

The hands pull back for a moment, and then there's a sharp _slap._ Dick yelps, jerking on the bed, his ass lighting up. There's an extremely brief pause, and then the hand comes down again, and again, and again, and again.

Dick keens, his arms straining against the rope. Batman switches hands, attacking his other ass cheek, repeating the process. When he's done that, he starts to switch it up, no pattern to the slaps, no common speed, nothing to allow Dick to brace for the hits.

"Please, please, please," Dick begs, shaking under the force of the blows.

Batman rubs his hand over Dicks ass, firm enough that it lights up the sting, the sensitivity. Dick whimpers.

"Do you even know what you're begging for?" Batman asks lowly. "Why should I give it to you, when you've been nothing but a disappointment?"

Tears escape Dick's eyes. No, he's disappointed Batman so many times, too many times—

_(It's not really Batman, it's not Bruce, Bruce would never do this to him—)_

"Please, I'm not—I can—I can be good, I can—"

"Show me," Batman growls. "Show me how sorry you are."

And then a finger is being pushed inside of him. It's liberally lubricated, which is annoyingly surprising to Dick, and doesn't hurt at all going in. Batman's other hand reaches up, gripping the back of the collar, and _pulls._

Dick gasps for air as breathing once again becomes challenging, arching his neck. Another finger enters him, and this he feels as Batman scissors his fingers. The thickness of the gloves drags oddly inside of him, and the thoroughness of the stretching is an odd contrast to the tight grip at his neck, his breaths straining in and out.

Right when blackness tinges the corners of Dick's vision, starting to creep in, Batman releases the hold. Dick flops back down on the bed, coughing and gasping for air that he can now get. He's lightheaded, a little dizzy.

"Pathetic," Batman scoffs, and Dick groans.

"Please," he says. "Please, I'm sorry—"

"You keep saying you're sorry," Batman growls, "as if that would mean anything to me. As if I would believe you. As if it would _ever_ be good enough. Do you honestly believe it would be?"

_(It's not Bruce, Bruce wouldn't do this, it isn't Bruce—_

_It sounds like him it looks like him he knows things he shouldn't things a random dom shouldn't know—_

_It's Roman, Roman's responsible, it's not Bruce, Bruce would never—)_

"No," Dick says hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

_(He's never good enough—)_

The fingers pull out of his ass. There's a click sound, like a catch release, and then a faint crinkle, and then Batman is pushing himself inside of Dick. He does it in one smooth, slow thrust until he's fully seated, his hips pressed against Dick's ass.

Dick is hysterically aware of the fact that Batman is bigger than Roman.

Batman doesn't move for a few seconds, and Dick adjusts to the intrusion, using the momentary break to attempt to calm himself down, to relax.

One of Batman's hands twists in Dick's hair again, pulling Dick's head around to an angle that allows him to examine him. Batman is completely unreadable, the cowl impenetrable, but whatever he sees in Dick's expression must satisfy him because he pulls out slightly, and then _snaps_ his hips forward.

Dick gasps, eyelids fluttering. Batman does it again, and again, and doesn't stop, setting a brutal pace. It's impossible to catch his breath, each attempt punched right back out of him.

He can feel himself getting hard. He doesn't know why; he doesn't find this the slightest bit arousing.

"You belong right here," Batman growls. "Made to be used."

_"Please."_

"You crave this, don't you? It's no wonder you ended up where you did; you deserve it all."

"Please, please, please—"

"So greedy," Batman tells him in disgust. He leans down, his full weight going against Dick's body. The smell of leather assaults Dick's senses, and he cries out when Batman bites at the junction of his neck; hard enough to bruise, but not to break skin. He does it again, and then again, twisting Dick's head to allow himself more access.

"Batman, _B,_ please—"

He hears a chuckle off to the side somewhere, but he barely registers it as Batman yanks his head further up, pulling him into a burning kiss.

Then suddenly Batman is pulling out of him. He slaps Dick's ass again, once, twice, three times, making Dick whimper, and then Batman grabs him and _flips_ him onto his back.

Dick blinks up at the ceiling, dizzy with the sudden movement, but it's barely a moment later that Batman is back, once more pushing inside of him.

The cape drapes around him, and Dick stares at it, oddly fixated. When he was much younger, he used to tuck Batman's cape around him on long stakeouts, taking comfort from the familiarity, and the easy warmth. And the closeness of his partner.

This is so different. Batman is so different—

_(Not him, it's not Bruce, but it—but it—)_

"What are you good for?" Batman growls. "At least you can be useful like this."

"Please," Dick sobs. He pushes his feet against the floor, trying to ground himself, but it has the unintentional side effect of pushing him up into Batman's thrusts, and Dick groans, tossing his head.

Batman thrusts deep, and then stills. There's a muted warmth in Dick's ass. Batman doesn't move for a second, and then he pulls out. He grabs the undersides of Dick's knees in his hands and yanks him off the bed.

Dick falls forward with a grunt, his knees slamming once again against the ground. A hand grabs a fistful of his hair and pulls Dick's head up, level with Batman's crotch. He watches Batman remove the used condom, and when Batman says, "Clean me off," he does as he's told, leaning forward to lick at the man's cock, cleaning off the remaining streaks of cum.

"Look at that," Batman says, "you _can_ follow directions."

"Yes," Dick says when he's done. "Yes, _please—"_

Batman crouches in front of him, and despite them now being mostly level Dick feels so _small_ in front of him, naked and bound. Batman is larger than life, just like he was the night Dick snuck out of juvie and met him for the first time. Just like he was the day Two-Face nearly beat Dick to death with a baseball bat, and Batman arrived to save him. Just like the day he told him to get out and give up Robin. Just like the day he stood over Dick's sprawled form, cheek throbbing, and told him to give his key to Alfred on the way out.

"Please," Dick sobs. "I'm sorry. Please."

Batman wraps a hand around Dick's hard cock and strokes him expertly, pleasure building.

Dick comes with a cry, and then his head drops against Batman's shoulder, his entire body slumping forward against Batman. He pants, wrung-out, and doesn't move.

Batman lifts a hand, stroking Dick's hair softly. His other settles in the small of Dick's back and rubs soothing circles, and for some reason that break some barrier, tears now flowing freely down his cheeks.

Batman very gently shifts him after a moment, reaching for the knot of the rope. He undoes it and carefully unwraps the rope, pulling it away from Dick's body. The ache in Dick's shoulders jumps to a higher level and his arms are released, flopping down at his sides.

He's pushed back slightly, a pair of hands lifting to his cheeks, and Dick blinks up at the face swimming in front of him. The cowl's down.

Jack. Jack Carroll. It's Jack. It's always been Jack.

Jack presses a kiss to his temple, bringing Dick's hands up and soothing the chafed skin of Dick's wrists with his fingers. Jack shifts Dick back just a little bit more, settling Dick's weight against the side of the bed. Dick's head tilts back against the comforter, and he blinks blankly as Jack pulls off his gloves, before once more reaching for Dick.

There's a bang, and a spray of blood, and a hole in the center of Jack's head.

Dick screams, blood splashing across his face. In Dick's horror it feels like the body falling to the ground takes a million years, Jack suspended in the air before collapsing.

"No," Dick says. "No, no, no—"

He jerks forward, scrambling over to the man. His hands tremble as he searches for a wound to put pressure on, to fix this, to make it all better, but he _can't,_ because it's just one gunshot, right to the brain, instant death—

"Well," someone off to the side says, _"that_ was fun."

Dick looks over at Roman, barely comprehending his presence.

"No, w-we needs to c-call the police, they need to save him, we need an ambulance—"

"He's dead, Richard," Roman says simply. He tosses a white-stained cloth into the trashcan, and redoes the button of his pants. "No amount of first aid will fix that."

 _"No,"_ Dick says again. He turns back to Jack, starts doing chest compressions, just how Bruce taught him.

"No, no, no," Dick says. "No, Bruce, I'm so sorry. No, no, no. Bruce. Bruce, I'm sorry."

It's Jack. It's never been Bruce. But Jack is dead now. He got Jack killed.

_(Another body for Dick's count—)_

"Why?" Dick keens. He can't look away from the gaping hole in Jack's head. _"Why,_ Roman?"

"He fucked you."

"You told him to!" Dick screams. "You _paid him to!"_

His hands curl against the front of the batsuit, and his head drops forward against the chest plate.

"You told him to," Dick whispers. "You. You told. You paid him. It was a _job._ You said. You _said."_

"Yes," Roman agrees. How can he sound so calm? _How can he sound so calm?_ "And he did his job. Quite beautifully, too; I got _excellent_ footage. And then his job ended."

"Please," Dick says. "Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Come back. Please. I'm so sorry. I...I'm so...I'm..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😬 I’d apologize, but after that, I think Dick did enough apologizing for the both of us... 😉
> 
>  **To all writers!**  
> [Sign-Ups](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSc0RruT9LdBVCt9v5x9RKHaDJ0QU2y295Hn4P26hGdEqChjzw/viewform) for the [Dick Grayson Fic Exchange](https://dickgraysonexchange2020.tumblr.com/) close this coming Tuesday, June 23rd! If you haven't signed up and would like to, now's your chance! It's gonna be a bunch of fun :) If you're on the fence, check out the [how it works page](https://dickgraysonexchange2020.tumblr.com/howitworks) for more info!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've missed replying to comments the last couple chapters, but I want all of you to know that I read each and every one of them ~~often multiple times~~ and they mean so much to me, life's just been hectic and I haven't been able to respond as I'd like to. Promise I'm gonna be better about it going forward!
> 
> Also! This is officially the longest thing I've ever written, as of this chapter. That's something spectacular to me, and I want to thank y'all for your support, because I _swear_ it would not have been possible without it 💜
> 
> Now go forth and enjoy!

When Danny heads into the room with the others, he pulls up short, surprised by the scene in front of him.

When the boss told them that there's a body to clean up, it was a familiar order. Danny's cleaned up quite a few messes in his time working for Black Mask, though he can admit that usually it doesn't usually happen in the boss' own home.

He's not expecting the body to be dressed up as Batman.

He's _really_ not expecting to find Grayson sitting next to it.

The kid's mostly naked, with his pants and underwear bunched up around his lower calves. He's staring at the body, gaze on the face and the gunshot wound in the middle of the guy's forehead, but looking more closely makes it clear that the kid's not...completely there.

His eyes are glazed over, his expression blank, and he reacts not at all to their presence. He looks like he's been through it, new bruises blooming over old ones, and the fact that the guy wearing the batsuit has his cock out of his pants lets Danny know at least part of what happened. Not that he understands it any.

Danny and the other guys exchange glances, and then start forward; the boss gave them a job to do, and while the presence of Grayson—especially in his current state—is...odd, it can't stop them from working.

Marcus lays out a tarp, and Danny and Mal heave the body up, then over, dropping him on the tarp. He's fucking _heavy,_ a big and broad dude, and even though this was clearly a sexual situation of some kind, Danny can't help but briefly consider this being the actual Batman. It's a stupid thought, makes absolutely no sense, but it looks like him. It's definitely freaky to deal with a dead body dressed up just like the Batman.

Danny glances over at Grayson occasionally while they work, but still the kid hasn't moved an inch. His eyes are still fixed on the spot where the dead guy's head used to be, still glazed and blank. He's slumped where he kneels, hands resting limply in his lap, and he just looks so...empty. Adds to the freakiness of the whole situation.

"What should we do?" Carl asks, jerking his chin towards Grayson to show what he means.

Mal frowns. "We shouldn't _do_ anything. Boss didn't say shit about him, so it's not our job. He's not our problem."

Frankly, Danny has to agree. Plus there's the fact that the boss gets rather...possessive, and Danny has no intention of figuring out whether that extends to one of his men simply making sure the kid isn't brain dead, or something. Danny isn't going _near_ Grayson without express order from the boss.

"I'm just sayin'," Carl grumbles. "What if he's like, hurt, or something? And we don't tell the boss?"

Marcus rolls his eyes. "Do you honestly think Boss isn't completely aware of whatever the fuck is going on? It's not like he treats Grayson with sunshine and roses, C. If the kid's hurt, Boss is probably the one responsible, and perfectly fine with it."

No one says anything else on the subject of Grayson, but Danny can see them all occasionally glancing over at him, waiting for some sign that the kid's aware of the world around him. There is none.

"It's kinda tempting, huh?" Jake says after a little while, speaking up for the first time.

"What is?"

Jake gestures towards the still form of Grayson. "I mean," he says. "Look at 'im. He looks like he'd...let ya, don't you think?"

Danny very specifically does not look up to where he knows the camera in the room is, and the microphone with it. Carl doesn't have the same control, gaze darting upward before back to Jake, and all of them scowl at Jake.

"Say it a little louder, why don't you?" Marcus hisses. "You wanna die, fucker? You're not taking us down with you, so shut your mouth."

"I was just sayin'," Jake says defensively. "I wasn't actually gonna _do_ anything!"

No one responds to that, and they finish their work in tense silence.

When the last body part has been wrapped up and ready for disposal, when the blood has been cleaned from the hardwood floor, they all start to head out. Danny glances back one last time, but still Grayson hasn't moved at all. He looks dead. If he wasn't sitting upright, Danny would think he _is_ dead.

For a moment, he feels a twinge of sympathy.

Then he turns away and follows the others to go finish their job.

* * *

"It's done, Sir," Danny says later, standing in front of the boss in parade rest.

The man doesn't look up at him, brows furrowed slightly as a majority of his focus is on a stack of papers in front of him, but he does say, "Good. What did you do with the suit?"

"Burned it," Danny replies. "Ashes dumped off the pier."

The boss nods. "Good. Dismissed."

Danny turns to go and gets as far as his hand on the doorknob before he pauses. It's been just over four hours since he and the others first walked into the guest bedroom, and on Danny's way to check in with the boss he saw that Grayson is still there, exactly where they left him. Four hours. There could be something seriously wrong. Maybe it's the boss' intention, but if it's not, and Danny says nothing despite knowing...

"Sir?" Danny says, turning back around, hoping he's right about this.

The boss lifts his head, frowning at him. "What?" he asks sharply, probably wondering why Danny isn't following orders. Yeah, Danny's wondering that, too.

"I...passed the guest room on the way here, Sir," Danny says hesitantly. "Grayson is still—there. Exactly where he was when we first found him, and when we left him. Hasn't moved a lick. I just..." He shrugs a shoulder nervously. "Just thought you should know, in case."

The boss leans back in his seat. Danny isn't quite sure what the look on the man's face is, but it isn't irritation at Danny for talking about this, so Danny lets himself relax just a little.

"Hm," the boss says, absently twirling a pen between his fingers. He gets up, then, striding towards the door, and Danny gets quickly out of his way.

He hesitates for a moment, watching the boss walk away, before rushing after him. Technically he was dismissed, but then more was said. He hasn't been dismissed again, and he can't just walk away.

So, Danny follows the boss back to the guest bedroom, standing awkwardly in the doorway as the boss enters slowly, attention on the still form of Grayson.

The boss watches the kid for a little while, head tilted, and then crouches in front of him. Still, Grayson has no reaction. The boss takes Grayson's chin in his hand and lifts his face, tilting his head this way and that, but still there's nothing.

"Well, shit," the boss sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath, then says, "Tucker, go get me a cold bottle of water."

Danny jumps to attention, saying a quick, "Yes, Sir," before turning and jogging towards the kitchen. He grabs a couple bottles from the fridge, just to be safe, and then heads back, cautiously entering the room and placing the water bottles on the floor beside the boss.

In the time he's been gone, the boss has taken one of Grayson's hands in his own, and is rubbing soft circles on the underside of his wrist. He stops to pick up and uncap the bottle, and then tilts Grayson's head back, lifting the bottle to Grayson's mouth.

"You need to drink this, sweetheart," the boss says, voice softer than Danny's ever heard it, and suddenly Danny feels extremely uncomfortable, like he's witnessing something he really shouldn't be.

The boss tips some water into Grayson's slack mouth, and still gets no response. Boss' mouth twists, unhappy, and then he nudges Grayson's mouth closed, holding it there with one hand while his other goes to Grayson's throat, thumb massaging along and forcing Grayson to swallow the water.

The boss repeats this process twice more before there's any sort of reaction. Grayson's eye twitches, just a little. His mouth pinches, ever so slightly.

"There you are," the boss says. "Alright, sweetheart, I really need you to drink this. It'll help."

He tips some more water into Grayson's mouth, waiting expectantly, but Grayson does nothing, no response. The boss' eyes narrow.

"I will suffocate you to get a reaction if I have to," Boss mutters, then rolls his shoulders and leans in, brushing a kiss against Grayson's temple. One of his hands strokes up and down the kid's back.

"Come on, sweetheart," the boss coos. "I need you to swallow for me. You can do that, can't you? Just one little sip, baby. That's all you have to do. Come on, for me. Swallow the water."

Grayson twitches, and then his throat works, swallowing down the water on his own.

"Very good," Boss says softly. "Good boy."

He lifts the water bottle again, tipping some into Grayson's mouth, and Grayson swallows again. He tilts forward slightly, leaning into the boss' body, and the boss pulls him closer, adjusting their position so he can still keep feeding the kid water. He pours just a little onto his fingers and then swipes the cold liquid across the back of Grayson's neck.

Slowly, under the gentle movements of the boss' hands and the steady sips of water, Grayson starts to come back. His eyes clear, his blank expression becomes more aware, the slump of his body seems less dead and more exhausted.

The boss keeps it all up until Grayson's eyebrows furrow and the kid gets out a slurred, "R'm'n?"

Boss sets the water bottle down, nearly empty. "That's right, sweetheart," he says. "Welcome back. You done being a pain?"

Grayson doesn't respond, his eyes sliding shut, and he slumps more fully against the boss. The boss sighs, his eyes rolling skyward.

"Figures," he says.

The boss shifts, changes his grip on Grayson, and then pulls them both up with a grunt. Grayson's feet slide uselessly across the ground as Boss moves him over to the bed, letting him flop down on top of it. He picks up the extra bottles of water and places them on the bedside table, then looks down at Grayson with pursed lips, hands on his hips.

"Alright," he says. "Good enough."

Then he turns towards the door, acknowledging Danny with a bare flick of his eyes. Danny follows after him, silent and unsure what to do now, and barely keeps himself from jumping when the boss speaks.

"Check on him in an hour," he says. "If he's asleep or just unconscious, leave him there. If he's dissociating again, you can come get me."

Danny nods. "Yes, Sir."

"Dismissed."

Danny stops following with a swell of relief, and then sets an alert on his phone to make sure he checks on Grayson like he's been told. Then he heads for the elevator, determined to get a drink or two in the meantime. Or twenty.

* * *

Jason hasn't been to the batcave in while, but the pathway is still infinitely familiar.

He hadn't wanted to come here at all, actually. After Bruce's uselessness, after how much he contributed to this mess with Dick, Jason hadn't felt like Bruce deserved to get an update about what's going on, about the (possible) progress he's made. But Tim had made an argument for looping Bruce in, and even _Roy_ had said it would be a good idea, which is the most convincing thing.

Roy is _really_ not Bruce's biggest fan. So if he's arguing for cluing Bruce in, then yeah, Jason figures he can do it.

Though he was _so close_ to asking Tim to do it for him. The plan is...kind of crazy, he knows. The others certainly think so, even if they're on his side now. But the idea of having to tell _Batman_ about what they're going to do is...Well, there will probably be yelling, and that disappointed growl of his, and since Jason's been itching to punch him again he just might do that, and then they're fighting and it's a whole thing.

Sending Tim in would probably be safer, but the kid's having to field quite a lot right now, and Jason can't pass this off to him. Besides, it's _Jason's_ plan; he'll take the flak from Bruce. It's not like it'll change anything.

So here he is, entering the batcave for the first time in quite a while. But as he approaches the main console, he hears some strange noises. Things that don't make sense.

_"At least you can be useful like this."_

What the fuck? Bruce?

_"Please."_

Dick.

Jason breaks into a run, sprinting as quickly as he can in the direction the noise is coming from, towards the batcomputer.

And then he comes to a dead halt, mouth open in shock as he stares at what is currently playing on the computer, brain short-circuiting.

Dick's on his back on a bed, with...Jesus fucking Christ, with _Batman_ over him, _fucking_ him. Dick's face is bright red and tear-streaked, and it looks like his arms are bound underneath him, pulling his shoulders back. His head is tipped back and he's biting his lip, hard enough that Jason can see blood welling to the surface.

Jason watches as—as Batman pulls out of Dick, stepping back. The man grabs Dick's legs and _yanks_ him off the bed, Dick's entire body jarring as his knees hit the hardwood floor.

It's the sight of Batman's cock hanging in front of Dick's devastated face that jolts Jason forward, rushing towards the computer to stop the damn thing from playing.

That's when he sees Bruce, in-person Bruce, sitting in the chair and watching the video with a stony expression, hands clasped tightly in his lap.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jason yells. Bruce's head jerks to the side, surprised by Jason's presence, and says nothing as Jason slams on the spacebar, cutting off the growled, _"...you can follow dire—"_

Jason takes a few deep breaths, turning away to try to gain control of himself. Green is creeping in from the edges of his vision, rage boiling his blood.

When he feels like he can move without burning the place to the ground, Jason turns back around, levelling Bruce with a furious look. The man's face is still completely blank, hard, like stone.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Jason repeats, hissing. "Why are you—goddammit, why are you _watching_ this?"

Bruce says nothing for a long moment. Then he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh no, you are _not_ changing the subject. What the _hell,_ Bruce? Answer me!"

"...Black Mask sent me this," Bruce says, voice just as controlled as his expression. "As a taunt."

Jason stares, waiting for further explanation, and then lets out an incredulous laugh. _"And?_ So what? You think you're the first to receive something like this? I get them _all the time._ I'm pretty sure Tim got one or two, though he hasn't explicitly said it. And you know what? We don't look at them! We delete them immediately! Because why the _fuck_ would we look at something that Dick would absolutely _hate_ us having seen?"

"It's evidence," Bruce says, still toneless.

 _"Liar,"_ Jason seethes. "You're a _liar,_ Bruce. You're not going to use this as _evidence,_ not in a million years." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "You want to know what I think?"

Bruce says nothing, staring at him.

"I think you're attempting to punish yourself," Jason says. "I think you're watching this video in some sort of bullshit _punishment_ for how much you've _failed._ And the fact that you can't see how wrong that is, the fact that you don't understand—"

He cuts himself off, takes another breath. "You said Mask sent it to you as a taunt. And yeah, that's probably part of it; he sure likes getting his shots in. But this is not. About. _You."_

Bruce twitches at that, a response to something Jason doesn't care to interpret right now.

"It—"

"It's not about you!" Jason shouts. "Can't you get that through your thick skull? He didn't send this—this _thing_ to you because he wanted to make _you_ feel bad, he did it to make _Dick_ feel bad! Because he _knows_ how much Dick would _hate_ you seeing this, hate _all of us_ seeing the shit Mask does to him! Because he _knows_ that whenever we get to see Dick, it'll be on the forefront of your mind, that this was done to him using your image. And since you're not nearly as good at hiding your emotions as you like to think, Dick'll know. And that'll _hurt him._

"This isn't about taunting you, Bruce. That's just the bonus. This is about shoving one more knife into Dick, right where it hurts the most."

He looks over at the image still on screen, nausea churning his gut. He'd been working so hard to keep all of them from ever seeing the things Roman sends, because when this is all over, that's something that would linger, and be extremely hard for Dick to handle. Because it's not about _them,_ and being able to witness what's happening to their brother, their family. It's about what's best for Dick.

Figures that Bruce's guilt complex would completely ruin that.

There's something on Dick's chest. Jason squints, trying to get a better understanding. It's...a wound of some kind? But...

"It's a brand," Bruce says quietly. "The letters _RS._ Black Mask branded him."

The green hits Jason like a wave.

"God _dammit!"_ he screams, and strikes out, swiping a few piles of things off of the table. They go clattering around him, papers flying and objects hitting the floor hard, but he can't bring himself to care. It is the absolute _least_ he needs to do right now.

"Goddammit," Jason says again, barely more than a whisper. "He..."

"My estimation is that it's seven to ten days old," Bruce informs him. "Which would line up with the day we received the partial message from Dick. His...punishment, assumedly."

Jason blinks. Wait a second—

"How long have you been watching this?" he asks slowly, turning back to Bruce. "To get a good enough view to analyze that. This doesn't sound like new information; _how many times have you watched this video?"_

Bruce just looks at him.

"Oh my god," Jason says. He runs his hands through his hair and clenches at the strands. "Oh my _god,_ Bruce. Fuck, keep this up and someone might wonder _why_ you're watching a porno of Dick being fucked by Batman."

Bruce surges to his feet, fury twisting his features, the first sign of emotion he's shown since Jason arrived. "How _dare_ you!"

"How dare _I?"_ Jason shouts right back, laughing incredulously. "Are you kidding? I'm not the one watching this shit, Bruce! Over and _over_ again, Jesus Christ. How are you gonna look him in the eye, huh? Knowing you watched this _torture?_ That you put your own self-flagellation before what is best for him?"

Jason turns sharply and strides away, needing to get away. He needs to take a lap, get rid of some of his restless energy before he continues the conversation. Coming here was a mistake, it's _always_ a mistake. Why does he ever expect better? Why does he _ever_ expect Bruce to change?

He knows better. He's known better for a long time. He thought Bruce was trying, he thought for _Dick_ Bruce would _try,_ but it's always the same. It's always the same.

He ends up in front of his old Robin uniform, the case that acts as a shrine for the boy he once was, for the _good soldier_ Bruce lost.

Dick told him once, after they'd had quite a few drinks, that he hates this display, too. How Bruce took something so precious to him, something that stood for family and light, and relegated it to the uniform of a soldier. That the colors his family wore suddenly were just that of a war, of a _good soldier._ That something Dick created to honor the Flying Graysons was now pinned behind a glass case, a permanent reminder of grief and loss and the dangers of the world.

"Right," Jason says softly, and then turns on his heels, heading for the workstation by the batmobile. He examines the various tools and then smirks when he spots the perfect one, picking the crowbar up with relish.

He makes his way back to the case, swinging the crowbar in his hand, testing the weight.

He takes a batter's stance.

And he _swings._

It's incredibly satisfying, taking the crowbar to the display. The glass doesn't break on the first swing, but it cracks on the second, and then _shatters_ on the third. He keeps going, not stopping until the entire thing is in pieces, until that stupid fucking plaque is mangled and unrecognizable.

He's breathing heavily by the time he's done, chest heaving with emotion as he stares at it, admiring his good work. The old Robin suit is littered with glass and splintered wood, and he makes a mental reminder to come back to clean this up, once the violence has calmed from his mind. Their suit deserves better. And maybe one day they can make a better memorial together.

Jason turns away from the shattered case, and then freezes, eyes going wide. Because a few feet away stands Alfred, the man watching him placidly.

"Are you quite finished, then, Master Jason?" he asks dryly. "Or would you like to smash a few other things while you're here?"

Jason shrugs a shoulder. "Dunno, Al. What've you got worth smashing?"

That pulls a smile to the butler's face, small and amused and a little sad. "Why don't we have tea instead?"

Jason cracks a smile right back. "I guess."

He follows Alfred out of the cave and into the kitchen, sitting down at the table when the older man shoes him away from helping.

The familiarity of this is calming, and Jason allows himself to relax into the chair, letting the smell of brewing tea soothe his exhausted mind. He used to love having tea with Alfred when he was a kid. He'd never really had tea before, at least not _proper_ tea, and Alfred was an excellent teacher, as well as good company. It's the same reason he loved learning to cook, when Alfred actually allowed him near the kitchen machinery.

"Now," Alfred says, setting a cup of tea in front of him and then sitting across from him with his own cup, "what brought upon that show of destruction, young master?"

"Hate that display," Jason mutters against the rim of his cup, blowing on the steaming tea.

Alfred looks unimpressed with his answer. "Yes, and you have for years. But you've yet to take a crowbar to it, so forgive me for assuming that something has acted as a catalyst."

Jason takes a long sip of tea, rolling his shoulders against some of the tension resting there.

"Let me ask you something, Al," Jason says instead of answering. Alfred inclines his head, allowing the change of subject. For now. "What do you think of all this?"

The older man takes a sip of his own tea. "In regards to Master Bruce's actions?"

Jason nods. Alfred sighs.

"That boy is headstrong, obstinate, and at times rather egotistical. He struggles to see past himself, sometimes. It is a great flaw, one I know this family has helped him with quite a bit. I was aware that he was using his job as Batman as at least partially a coping mechanism for the trauma he's endured, something of an alternative to therapy."

A glimmer of a sad smile.

"I would be perfectly happy if he hung up the cape one day, if I didn't know he wouldn't be able to handle doing nothing. But, ah, that's a conversation for another time." He sighs. "I was fully aware of his harshness with criminals, but that is acceptable. That is the job he's taken on. But I...I was never aware of the fact that he'd turned that towards his family."

He shakes his head. "When it happened, I informed Master Bruce that I did not approve of him taking Robin and sending Master Richard away. I told him he was wrong, and that he'd regret his actions one day. But I let it go, after that. And then you joined our family, and it became something of a fresh start. Your death...I know you don't like hearing this, but your death truly _broke_ him, Jason. It's no excuse for hitting Master Richard, for setting us all on this path we've found ourselves on. Nor does it explain the other times he's raised a hand to that boy.

"You must hear me," Alfred says seriously, "when I tell you it will _not_ happen again. I would tell the world he's Batman before I let him touch any of you again. He will be attending therapy, with a thoroughly vetted psychiatrist. He will be making an effort to better himself for this family. It does not excuse his previous actions, but I will _make_ it happen."

Jason believes him. He doesn't know how well Bruce will take to it—the very idea feels laughable—but he believes Alfred. He believes _in_ Alfred.

"Now," Alfred says patiently. "What happened?"

"You want a list?" Jason asks, voice wry.

Alfred just cocks an eyebrow at him. "I hope you know I'll be making you clean up what you destroyed."

"I know," Jason agrees. "Was plannin' on it, anyway." He takes another sip of tea, then a slow breath. "He...he was just makin' this shit about him, and hurting Dick in the process. And then I was lookin' at the stupid memorial, and thinkin' about how both Dick and I hate it, and how _stupid_ it is that the thing exists at all, and it just...It needed to go. I needed to do it."

Alfred nods, accepting the answer. "I'm not surprised Master Richard hates it," he muses. "He was quite angry with Master Bruce for what he did to Robin."

"Yeah," Jason snorts. "You mean he hated that Bruce gave it to me."

"He hated that Bruce gave it to _anyone,"_ Alfred corrects. "Because it wasn't his to give. Batman is a Wayne legacy, he made it so. But Robin was for the Graysons, and only a Grayson had the right to pass it down."

"He probably was happy about that part when I died, then," Jason says bitterly. "No more imposter Robin."

Alfred looks at him sharply. "I will have none of that talk, thank you very much. Your grievances with Master Bruce are quite reasonable, but I will not have you try to erase history and make Master Richard out to be the demon in your story. He resented Bruce for giving away Robin, yes, but do you not remember him making an effort with you? He had no reason to, none at all. But he gave you his blessing nonetheless. He considered you his brother, and he loved you. Do not attempt to erase that."

"If he loved me so much, why didn't he go to my funeral?" Jason snaps, and then wishes he hadn't. There's no reason to get into this stuff now. It's in the past, and he and Dick have moved past it. They've been brothers for years now, and there are bigger things to deal with than old hurts. The funeral is...it's old news. Unimportant.

"Oh, good heavens," Alfred says, looking skyward. "I've had just about enough of this farce."

Jason frowns. "Excuse me?"

"He didn't know, Jason," Alfred says kindly.

Jason freezes, staring at the other man. "What do you mean, _he didn't know?"_

Alfred sighs. "When you died, Richard was off-planet on a mission with his Titans. And Master Bruce did not send him a message, did not reach out to inform him of your death. Your funeral took place while he was still in space. He didn't attend because he didn't know you were dead."

Jason sits there, frozen, the breath sucked out of his lungs.

For _years,_ Jason has been holding onto this, even if he pretended it didn't matter anymore. The question of _why,_ why Dick didn't go, why he would _pretend_ to care when that was such an obvious sign that he hadn't. Why he wouldn't just be honest about having hated Jason back then. Why he tried to keep up this lie of having seen him as a brother, when he couldn't be bothered to attend.

But he didn't know. Bruce didn't _tell him._ Christ, put another mark in the column of how fucked up Bruce's parenting is.

"Why?" Jason asks hoarsely. "Why didn't Bruce—was it so hard to pick up a goddamn communicator and call Dick?"

"There is no explanation except for grief," Alfred says simply. "And even that is a weak one at that. But you must know that Richard would've been home in an _instant_ if he knew what happened. Nothing would've been able to stop him."

Jason takes another sip of tea. He tries to imagine coming back to Earth and discovering that your little brother is dead and buried, weeks or maybe even _months_ ago. That your father neglected to tell you. And then, when you confront him about it, he blames you for it, punches you, and kicks you out of the house. How horrifying that would be. How traumatizing.

And how easy it would be for a master manipulator like Roman Sionis to take advantage.

"Yeah," Jason says softly. "Yeah, okay."

* * *

Dick wakes up slowly.

He stares at the wall for a while, feeling half-aware, half-alive. Everything is distant, muted. His body is heavy, sinking against the blanket beneath him, and barely responds to him when he tries to command his limbs to move.

It takes a while. A long while. But eventually he manages to push himself up, folding his legs underneath him. He's cold—it's pushing December and he's completely naked—and tired, and for a long few moments he has no idea where he is.

He looks around blearily, and his attention catches on a few small drops of red on the floor, just a foot or so away from the bed.

Blood. It's blood. Dried and a little old, but blood nonetheless.

And he remembers.

Dick closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He thinks of the trapeze, swinging through the air high above everything. He thinks of leaping off tall buildings, enjoying those few moments of beautiful freefall before shooting out a line.

He keeps that in his head as he gets to his feet, counting his breaths. There's nothing to dress himself in, and he can't muster up any care for that, walking from the room and towards Roman's completely naked.

The bedroom is empty when he gets there, and he enters the bathroom, needing a shower. As he waits for the water to heat up he pulls off his collar, and holds it in his hands, staring down at it, running his thumb over the smooth black leather.

Dick can't even begin to describe what he's feeling. There are no words, no way to explain this clawing, _drowning_ feeling filling him. No words for this—this desperation, this fury, this disgusting brokenness. No words for this overwhelming _disgust,_ with himself, with Roman. No words to describe the guilt that rips at him, threatens to shred him to pieces.

He feels flayed open, ripped limb from limb. He feels...

His breath hitches, and he steps into the shower, closing his eyes and leaning his head back into the warm spray.

He sees Jack behind his eyelids, and tries to call upon the trapeze, the weightlessness, the freefall.

He fails. He sees Jack. He sees Nicola. Killed the same way. Killed because of him.

Dick's breath hitches again, then again, and before he knows it he's sobbing, one arm braced on the wall to keep himself upright. His entire body shakes, unable to control it as despair takes him over. His hands curl into useless fists and he presses his forehead against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly they hurt.

Everything he touches gets poisoned. Even when he does as he's told, even when he's _perfect,_ it's not enough. He still carries death in his wake. Nothing he does will ever be enough, will ever make up for that.

Jack was innocent. Jack was a good man.

Dick's knees buckle, and he drops to the floor, a desperate keen forcing its way out of his throat.

He can see Bruce above him, face twisted in a snarl. _Do you think you deserve mercy? After everything you've done, who you've become? You disgust me._

No, he doesn't deserve it.

_No, it wasn't Bruce._

But it's true. It's true, it's all true, everything he said. Dick's poison; an innocent man is dead for the sole crime of having touched him.

_You won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death._

It's been four years since Blockbuster. It was supposed to be over.

_Do you like being alone, Dick?_

"Shut up," Dick moans, trying to will the criminal from his head. "Please. _Please,_ just stop."

_Quiet, mi amor, callado._

It will never stop. It _never stops._ One after the other, they just keep coming, they keep _taking,_ picking off pieces of him like they have the right, like he's theirs to break into pieces. Like he's not himself, he's just _theirs,_ just an object to enjoy and abuse and toss aside when it's convenient.

Is that all he is?

_You should've sensed the difference!_

Maybe the problem really does lie with him. Maybe it's not the rest of the world at fault, but just him. Because it wouldn't keep happening, would it? It has to be something about him. Why Bruce hit him again and again, why Mirage took advantage, why Tarantula did so too, why Tara betrayed the enormous amount of trust he placed in her.

And Roman. Always, always Roman.

It's _him,_ it's Dick, he's the common denominator amongst all of these awful things, it's always been him.

_You were supposed to be one, too, Dick._

It's in his blood. To destroy, to ruin things. Maybe this is his penance. Maybe he died with his parents after all, and this is his hell.

He stays in the shower until the water has long run cold, and then he pushes himself up on stiff legs, switching it off and stepping out. The bruises that paint his skin are old hat, barely worth noticing after so long, but his gaze lingers on the deepening red around his neck from where the collar had been used to choke him.

_You've been nothing but a disappointment._

He feels numb as he gets dressed. Once more he holds the collar in his hands, staring down at it. He wants to rip it into pieces, wants to burn it, wants to drop its mangled form at Roman's feet like an offering for the devil god he is, daring a response out of him.

_This is where you belong._

He puts the collar on and leaves, padding softly down the hall towards the dining room. Roman sits in his usual spot at the head of the table, idly sipping from a coffee mug as he reads the paper.

Dick sits down, not saying a word as he pours himself some coffee and pulls some eggs and sausage links onto his plate. He spears one with his fork and lifts it to his mouth, nibbling at the end.

He can feel Roman's eyes on him, but he doesn't look over, keeping his gaze lowered on his plate. He doesn't have it in him to hold his own against Roman right now. Barely has it in him to be upright.

_Pathetic._

"We'll be going out for dinner tonight," Roman tells him.

Dick nods. "Okay," he says quietly. He makes himself take another bite, then another. He knows now what Roman's response to him not eating will be, and he really doesn't want that.

He's not expecting the hand that grabs his jaw and jerks his head up, but he doesn't fight it, allowing Roman to maneuver his face how he likes.

Roman's gaze is intense, critical, and his voice is almost an accusation when he asks, "How are you feeling?"

Dick blinks at him. "Is that an honest question?" he asks, just as quiet as before.

Roman purses his lips, and then releases Dick's jaw roughly, pushing him away. "No. Go back to eating."

Dick does as he's told.

After a little while, Roman puts the paper down and opens one of the files he has sitting on the table, scanning through whatever it is. Dick doesn't glance over; even being this close to Roman's information is making his skin crawl—after what happened the last time he snuck a peek...

But Roman flops the file down next to Dick, _open,_ and taps his finger against the top page. Dick looks at it warily for a moment before raising his gaze to Roman's face. He can't quite bring himself to meet Roman's eyes, though, which hurts something deep inside for some reason.

"I want you to tell me how you'd break in here," Roman instructs.

Dick's brows furrow. "Why?"

"Because I'm telling you to."

Dick grimaces, but does reach for the file, pulling it closer to get a better look at the papers. A few of them are blueprints, different floors of what seems to be a private estate. There's a security log, and a rundown of the security system.

Analyzing all the information almost feels like working a case, and it's odd to stretch those muscles after months of inaction.

But he works it through, going over the details again and again, finally satisfied when he says, "Second-story eastside window. Less motion sensors because of the garden, a nearby tree that would allow someone to reach the window. This security system doesn't handle power surges well, so once you reach the window you can short-circuit the electronic lock with just a mild shock. It would only be disconnected for ten seconds max, so you'd have to move fast, but as long as you're inside with the window latched by the time it reengages, you're golden. From there it's just timing for the guards and cameras."

He glances up and finds Roman looking at him with approval. Dick looks away quickly, gaze settling back on his plate.

"Whose house is this?" he asks quietly.

"Not important," Roman replies, waving a hand dismissively through the air before he takes the file back. "It's just an exercise, sweetheart. A brain teaser. Don't worry about it."

That settles uncomfortably in Dick's gut, but he lets it go. It doesn't matter, and pressing Roman for more information is pointless. It's none of his business, anyway. He wants to stay out of Roman's business as much as he can.

"I'll see you for dinner," Roman says, getting to his feet. "Do whatever you want today." _Except leave the penthouse,_ is the unsaid caveat.

"Okay," Dick murmurs. He takes a sip of his coffee, and tells himself that he doesn't feel nauseous, that he's perfectly fine.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Roman says, chuckling. His hand settles on Dick's shoulder, large and warm. "Whenever we next see Wayne, we _really_ must talk to him about the etiquette when you receive a gift. It's so rude to not send a thank you note, or something."

Dick stares at his plate. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that I put a lot of work into getting the best possible footage of last night; the least Brucie could do is thank me for sending him such a wonderful video."

 _And he did his job. Quite beautifully, too; I got_ excellent _footage. And then his job ended._

Dick closes his eyes. He'd forgotten. Or, he hadn't thought it was real. Or it hadn't _felt_ real. Whatever the reason, he hadn't remembered what Roman said after Jack's death. That Roman was filming the whole thing.

And has, apparently, sent it to Bruce.

_You belong right here._

"Okay," Dick says softly.

There's nothing else to say. There's nothing else to do. If he tries to think about Bruce seeing him like that, seeing someone—seeing _Batman_ treat him like that. Seeing Dick come from it. Hearing all the things Bruce would never voice, but are all so very true. Bruce has seen the video. God, if his father still wanted him back before this, he certainly couldn't possibly now.

And that's okay. It's fine. It's always him. He's the common denominator.

_Do you like being alone, Dick?_

"Okay," Roman echoes, sounding amused. His hand slides off of Dick's shoulder and he walks away, footsteps fading into the background.

Dick takes another bite of food, then another, and does his best to not picture Nicola's gentle touch, Jack's kind smile.

_You are...Roman's._

"Yeah," Dick sighs to the empty room, slumping back in his chair. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

Dick barely sees Roman in the next few days, the man seemingly quite busy. They fuck at night and most mornings, but otherwise Dick is left mainly to his own devices.

He doesn't know how he feels about it. On the one hand, time away from Roman is nice. On the other hand, it leaves him with barely more to do than live in his own head, ruminate, let the dark thoughts circle and grow.

He does his best to distract himself. He's effective maybe half the time.

He watches a lot of shit television, letting the mindlessness of reality TV and sitcoms lull him into a more peaceful mindset. Sometimes he manages to pretend that he's curled up on his couch in his Bludhaven apartment, his fuzzy blanket that was a gift from Tim wrapped around him, his Superman mug in his hands with steaming hot cocoa filled to the brim.

He actually has no idea what happened to all of his stuff. He's pretty sure Roman put it in storage, but...he doesn't actually know. The apartment's been sold, after all. Which is a shame; he spent time perfecting the hidden room that contained all of his Nightwing gear. Put a lot of work into all of that.

Not that it matters, really. It's not like he'll ever be living in Bludhaven again. Not like he'll ever be able to wear his suit.

That...that hurts. That _hurts._ Is Nightwing truly dead? He's known for a while that it's not in the cards for him, but he never really thought about the fact that he's not just gone, _Nightwing_ is. The hero has been absent for about three months. He's been _dead._ Nightwing was a symbol of hope, of rebirth, of rising strong. And now he's nothing, a box of gear tucked in some storage unit somewhere.

He doesn't want Nightwing to be dead. He made a promise to Clark, to himself, to the people of Bludhaven. Just because he's fallen doesn't mean Nightwing should. Just because it's over for him doesn't mean it has to be for the hero of Bludhaven. Just because he's unworthy doesn't mean Nightwing should cease.

He'll have to find a way to talk to his family at some point. Tim or Damian would carry the mantle well. Maybe even Stephanie, if she's game. She was talking about trying something new, way before all of this started. She could do good work in Bludhaven. And the Flamebird name is always available, if someone wants to join her.

It's a bittersweet feeling; devastation, at realizing it's over for him, that he'll never be Nightwing again. Roman will never let him be. Hope, at the knowledge that he can create one more legacy. Chosen, this time. Robin wasn't supposed to be passed down. He wouldn't change a thing now, wouldn't trade his brothers for anything, but he didn't have a choice there.

He can do this, though.

Dick enjoys the drives that Roman occasionally allows him to take. He doesn't get to stop anywhere, and has to be back within a few hours, but it's peaceful. It's nice to be out of the penthouse, even if he stays inside a car the whole time.

His new guards don't speak to him, and he doesn't speak to them. It's a mutually beneficial relationship. As much as anything can be _mutual_ in the world he lives in, that is. He knows nothing about them past their names, and he's very happy with it being like that. He might get them killed one day, after all.

_(Four bodies on Dick's count, four people he got killed, maybe five if that little girl dies—)_

It's better this way, after all.

_You won't be able to shake someone's hand without marking them for death._

His dreams run wild with nightmares, twisted things that make him think of being under the influence of Scarecrow's fear toxin. He wakes with half-remembered fears, screamed words, painful blows. Not all of them from the bad guys.

"Mr. Grayson?"

Dick's head jerks up, and he blinks around blearily. He doesn't think he fell asleep, but he was definitely close to it before the interruption. He glances around and sees one of Roman's men standing in the doorway of the living room, hands in his back pockets.

"Yes?" Dick asks. He shifts forward, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders. He's wearing a long-sleeved shirt, but he still feels instantly cold, and folds his arms across his chest.

"Mr. Sionis would like you to go to his office," the man tells him.

Dick swallows past the anxiety that twists in his gut. He hasn't done anything wrong these last few days, he's _sure_ of it. Roman has no reason to punish him. It'll be fine.

"Okay," Dick says evenly, and gets to his feet. The man leads the way, despite the fact that Dick could walk the path in his sleep, and then stands off to the side, watching him expectantly.

Dick takes a deep breath and raises his fist to knock, starting to run through a few breathing exercises. It's fine. Roman's called for him countless times before for harmless reasons. This is absolutely fine.

"Come in," Roman's voice calls.

Dick pushes open the door, looking instinctively to where Roman sits behind his desk. The man is smirking at him, and when his eyes flick over to the side, Dick turns to follow the look, seeking out what has Roman's attention.

And that has Dick coming face to face with Slade Wilson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next week 😎


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have _no idea_ how long I've been waiting to share Slade's part with you 😁

Only the slightest widening of Slade's eye betrays his surprise, and the look is gone as quickly as it appeared, smoothing back into placid disinterest.

Dick, however, is slower to gain control over himself, and thus he's sure he's painfully obvious. But can you blame him? This is not a place Slade Wilson is supposed to turn up, not when _Dick_ is...well, when Dick is here, dressed the way he is, _with_ the one he's with. Slade shouldn't be anywhere _near_ him right now, and the panicked stream of _how-why-_ ** _no_ ** in his head means by the time he's smoothed his expression too, he knows Roman's seen it all.

In reality, it's probably no more than four seconds. But for people like them, that's a lifetime.

"Ah, Richard, thank you for joining us," Roman says, and when Dick looks over to him, he finds the man smirking at him, sitting behind his desk with a relaxed set to his shoulders.

"Of course," Dick replies automatically, and tries to stop his heart from beating out of his chest. Slade can probably hear it. "What do you need?"

"This is Mr. Wilson," Roman introduces, though it's clear that he knows _Dick_ knows who the other man is. "He's going to be doing some work for me which'll have him around for a bit; I thought it right to introduce you."

Dick smiles tightly. He's painfully aware of the collar around his throat—it's the real one, the one that can't be mistaken for a choker or interesting necklace. And he knows Slade is far too observant to not see it. Though, at the moment, Slade seems to be making an effort to _not_ look at him, to be completely uninterested in getting to know the random boy Roman just brought in.

Is he that obvious to Roman, too, or does Dick just know Slade too well?

"Nice to meet you," Dick says, because it's expected of him.

Slade's eyes flick over to him as he says, "Likewise," and Dick can pinpoint the moment Slade spots the collar. The flaring of his nostrils, the flatness that crawls into his gaze. Dick swallows and doesn't shy away, doesn't show weakness, but nonetheless he can't quite meet Slade's eye.

Again, the moment is quick and barely there, completely masked by the time Slade turns his attention back to Roman. But still, there's a coldness that wasn't there before.

Roman smiles slowly.

"You know who he is," Roman says.

Slade takes a drink from the glass in his hand. "You'll have to be more specific."

 _"Nightwing,"_ Roman says with relish, and Dick can't help the way he flinches.

"Oh, that," Slade replies on a sigh, like he couldn't care less. "Yes, I suppose I do. Quite surprised to see him here, though."

Roman hums, nodding, and then gestures for Dick to approach. Dick does as he's told, but his feet feel like cement blocks for how much they want to stay where they were. He doesn't know if he can do this, play the role Roman's about to force him to. Not in front of Slade.

The thing between him and Slade has always been...unconventional. Mutual hatred is what people expect between them, given the tense history; Ravagers One and Two, Tara, _Joey_ —things that should've made them enemies instead left them somewhere in the middle. Dick wouldn't consider them friends— _can_ you be friends with someone who's tortured you and would probably kill you if offered enough money?—but he considers them...something.

Whatever it is, it makes the idea of being Roman's _toy_ in front of him utterly mortifying.

Dick reaches Roman's side and allows the arm that snakes around his waist without complaint. He keeps his gaze on the wall past Slade, unfocusing his vision enough that the mercenary is just a blur, no details of whatever his expression is right now making their way into Dick's notice.

Roman takes a breath, opening his mouth, and Dick tries to prepare himself for whatever the man is going to say. But then there's a knock at the door, and Max—one of Roman's lieutenants—peaks his head inside.

"What?" Roman snaps, clearly displeased at having his fun interrupted.

Max, to his credit, doesn't cower away. "Phone call for you, Sir. It seems very important."

Roman mutters something unkind under his breath and then stands, releasing his grip on Dick. "I'll be back," he says as he heads towards the door, and then, as an afterthought, adds, "Apologies, Mr. Wilson."

The door clicks shut behind Roman, leaving Dick and Slade alone in his office. Dick knows where each camera is, each microphone. Roman's a control freak, and that means the penthouse is covered in surveillance equipment. Anything that happens right now, Roman will know about.

Dick can only pray Slade doesn't try to do anything extreme.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Slade get to his feet. When he takes a step forward, Dick takes one back; he's not afraid, not of Slade hurting him at least, but he needs to keep the distance between them.

"You gonna offer an explanation, kid, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

Dick's lips curl back and his eyes cut over to Slade, narrowed. Slade's staring back at him, expression cold and displeased.

"What are _you_ doing here, Slade?" Dick asks instead. "Since when do you work for mobsters?"

Slade doesn't look impressed by the redirect. "Since they offer me quite a lot of money for easy work. And considering this is kind of the thing I do, me being here isn't that odd. _You,_ however, seem to be a little lost." His eye slides down to the collar. "Someone clip your wings, birdie?"

"It's none of your business," Dick snaps.

Slade laughs and begins stalking forward. Dick takes one step back before he knows it would be useless—Slade's not going to stop, and Dick doesn't want to get backed against the wall. Instead he stands his ground, jutting out his chin.

"How," Slade says coldly, "did you end up beholden to a man like _Black Mask?_ This is the last time I'm going to ask nicely."

Dick smiles nastily. He's sick of men thinking he owes them anything. He's sick of being on the other end of _demands,_ everyone always taking and never giving.

"You sound _jealous,_ Slade," Dick comments, voice light. They're very close together now, but Dick can't step back, can't give that ground; he can only hope Roman doesn't walk in while he and Slade are standing the way they are.

Slade scoffs. "Maybe if you were here _willingly,_ I would be. If you were wearing a _goddamn collar—"_ Dick flinches at the pure disgust in the other man's voice, "—because you _want_ to, then yeah, Grayson, I think I'd feel a little put off that you were giving yourself to _Roman Sionis_ of all people. But you're not. So why don't you tell me how he's getting you to be such an obedient little bird?"

Dick clenches his jaw, glaring. "This has nothing to do with you—"

He's unprepared for the shove—it's been a _long_ time since he was in any sort of fight—and it makes him stumble back, but he _does_ block the punch that follows and throw one back automatically, which Slade ducks under.

On his best day, Dick can go toe to toe with Slade. If he's _truly_ in absolutely peak form, and maybe has some luck on his side, he can even win. But right now? After _months_ out of practice? He's nowhere close to his _own_ standards, let alone Slade's.

Which means it's an almost embarrassingly short period of time before Slade has him pinned against the wall, arms wrenched up behind his back, making his shoulders ache. He tries to kick back but Slade knocks his legs apart to get him off balance. Dick feels something cold against his neck and withholds a curse as he realizes it's a knife.

"Now," Slade murmurs against the shell of his ear, "I believe I asked you a question."

"Go to hell," Dick snarls back, pissed off now, and arches his neck to avoid getting cut when Slade presses the blade more firmly against his skin.

"Kid," Slade sighs. "You know the way to make me back off."

When Dick says nothing, clenching his jaw, the knife digs in just a bit further; enough to scratch, but not quite to cut, and Dick is desperately relieved—if Slade left any marks on him, on _Roman's_ property...

The knife shifts, dragging down a little, and then it leaves Dick's skin to instead run over the black leather of the collar. He feels the tip of the knife press in, a subtle threat, and Dick stops breathing for a moment, genuinely afraid.

"Shit, Slade, _don't."_

"Because he'll be upset?" Slade mocks.

"Because you won't be the one paying for it!" Dick snaps back.

There are a few moments where Slade doesn't reply, and then the man slowly draws back, releasing Dick. Dick stays where he is to take a couple deep breaths before he turns around, finding Slade watching him from a few feet away, expression unreadable.

"He's trained you," Slade says like an accusation, lips curling back from his teeth. "Christ, Grayson, look at yourself. Collared and cowering at the mere idea of his anger."

Dick doesn't allow himself to react. He knows what he is; Slade isn't saying anything new.

"He's using my family's identities," Dick says flatly. "He knows who they are. And he has quite the collection of pictures of me in compromising positions as the blackmail cherry on top. _That_ is why I'm here, Slade."

Slade rolls his eye and turns away, heading over to sit back down, reclining slightly in his chair. He picks up his drink and takes a long sip, watching Dick. Dick watches back.

"I find this despicable," Slade says. "And plebeian."

Dick cracks a smile. He leans against the wall, loosely crossing his arms. "Oh?"

"I've known your identity since you were eighteen years old; have I ever once threatened to use it against you?"

It's Dick's turn to roll his eyes. No, Slade hasn't, but— "Your point?"

"My point is that I have some sense of _honor._ And now a man like _Black Mask_ has you neutered because he took some photos and was lucky enough to stumble across your identity? That doesn't sit right with me."

"Aren't you a knight in shining armor," Dick drawls sarcastically. Slade sends him a look, unamused.

"Those bruises, around your wrists and neck," Slade says, and Dick stops himself from looking down at them or pulling his sleeves into place to cover them. "Fingerprints and ropes. Tell me, kid—you get those in a fight?"

 _Of a sort,_ Dick thinks, and then has to suppress a snort. Instead, he says nothing, and Slade smiles coldly.

"The great Nightwing, relegated to a common criminal's whore."

Dick doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink. Roman's called him a whore so many times that the word has completely lost its impact.

But—

But he never thought he'd hear the word from Slade. There's a lot of shaky water between them, but they respect each other, don't they? Slade's told him so, at least. After Joey's death. He lets him know when he has a contract in Bludhaven, as a courtesy. He patched Dick up once after finding him practically bleeding out in an alleyway. They may be on opposite sides but they're not always enemies.

It just stings more than he thought it would, is all. Having Slade call him Roman's whore. Makes it feel so much more factual; sure, Roman calls him that and Dick certainly thinks it about himself, but _Slade?_

"Yes," Dick says quietly. He can't look Slade in the eye anymore.

Slade lets the silence remain for a little while, and then sighs. "How long have you been here, kid?"

"About three months, maybe," Dick says. "Little less."

"You find yourself making excuses for him yet?"

Dick frowns and raises his gaze again. Slade's still watching him, but it seems far less antagonistic than it was before. "What?"

 _"Stockholm Syndrome,_ Grayson," Slade says pointedly.

It startles a laugh out of Dick. "I—what? No! No, I'm not—I _wouldn't—"_

"He's sure got you trained, I wouldn't be surprised," Slade adds mildly.

Dick bristles a little. "You watched me around him for all of two minutes, what do _you_ know about what he's done to me?"

"When he looks at you, you straighten a little, an automatic response. When he speaks to you, your answers are immediate and exactly what you know he wants you to say. You do not hesitate to follow the smallest of directions, like when his hand _barely moved_ and you were already striding across the room to stand by his side. When I had you pinned you were still searching for a way out _until_ I had my knife on that collar of yours, and then you went practically limp.

"That's _conditioning,_ boy. I'd actually be impressed that someone had managed it with you if I wasn't so disgusted by _who_ is the one holding your leash."

Dick flinches. Slade catches the motion.

"You must be joking," Slade says flatly. "He has an actual _leash?"_

"What do you _want,_ Slade?" Dick snaps defensively. "Why are you here?" His heart's racing a little; obviously he's known that Roman's weaseled his way into Dick's brain. He _knows_ that, because it's absolutely impossible to ignore. But having it laid out like that—shit.

"Actually, your friends tracked me down."

Dick goes still. He opens his mouth to ask, but his voice fails him.

"A month back I got word that Red Hood was looking to get in contact with me," Slade continues, unbothered by his silence. "But I was in the middle of a job, so I really wasn't in the mood to entertain the drama that follows the Bats of Gotham. I finished my job, got offered another, and pushed Hood out of my head so I could actually make my living. Went about my life after that.

"But then, a week or so ago, _Troia_ showed up in my safehouse. I've never liked her all that much, too much _hero_ for my tastes, but she didn't actually seem to be gearing up for a fight so I decided to listen to her talk. All she did, though, is toss me a phone, and tell me that Red Hood has a job offer for me.

"Now, that's quite the suspicious statement, considering Red Hood's been playing vigilante, and the Bat doesn't exactly approve of hiring mercenaries, does he? But hey, I didn't have anything currently going on, and it had been a while since I visited Jersey, and I figured I could drop by Bludhaven and bug you a bit along the way. So, I went, and I met with Hood. You want to know what he wanted from me, little bird?"

Dick still can't speak. What the _hell,_ Jason? And _Donna?_ What the fuck is going on?

"He wanted to pay me fifty grand just to take the next job Black Mask put out into the world," Slade says. His voice is easy-going, but his gaze is hyper-focused. "Wouldn't give me an explanation. That seemed extremely shady to me, I'm sure you understand. But, again, I had nothing going on, and this seemed vaguely interesting. So I took his money, waited, and then Black Mask had a job he needed a mercenary to fill.

"Why do you think your brother did that, Dick?" Slade asks lowly. "Obviously he wanted me to know you were here. But he couldn't just _tell_ me, oh no, he wanted me to _see_ you. Why is that, Grayson? Why the hell set this whole thing up? What did he think I would do?"

Dick swallows. "Cameras," he croaks. "There are—cameras, and microphones—"

"Which were all jammed the instant I stepped into this room," Slade interrupts smoothly. "I don't like my clients filming our deals; I always come prepared."

"Tell Jason," Dick says, closing his eyes, trying to center himself, "that he needs to back off."

Slade cocks his head, and then his eye flicks towards the door. "You have twelve seconds to get ahold of yourself, kid, and then we're going to have incoming. I doubt you want Mask to walk in on you like _this,_ do you?"

Dick turns away from him, breathing deeply. He rolls his shoulders, works on calming his heart rate. He won't be able to completely hide signs of his distress, but that's okay; Roman would expect him to be a little agitated after being left alone in a room with Deathstroke. Dick just has to dial it back enough to not make Roman think there's anything else going on.

He moves back over to the desk and leans against it, hands gripping the wood to either side of himself, and exactly when the count hits zero, the door pushes open again, admitting Roman back into the room.

Roman's gaze flicks between Slade's perfectly relaxed posture and whatever tenseness he must read in Dick's body, and he smirks slightly, shutting the door behind him.

"Apologies," Roman says, walking back over to his desk chair. "Some things just can't wait."

Slade inclines his head, accepting.

Roman curves his fingers in a _come here_ gesture, and Dick does as he's bid, sliding over to Roman's side once again.

"So," Roman says as he pulls Dick close, having him perch on the arm of his chair, "I'm assuming the pair of you have encountered each other once or twice?"

"I've tried to kill him, if that's what you mean," Slade drawls.

"And yet here he stands."

Slade's eye narrows slightly. Dick doesn't know if it's offense at the not-quite-insult to his abilities or in response to the apparent disbelief that Dick could stand his own enough to survive, but he hopes whatever it is, Slade lets it go. Dick wants the topic of conversation to leave him as soon as possible.

"It's not like Nightwing is harmless, himself," Slade says simply.

Roman hums. His fingers rub idly at Dick's hip, and then he leans over, his breath hot on the side of Dick's face as he says, "On your knees, sweetheart."

Dick looks at him, panicked, heart pounding in his chest. Roman just fixes him with an expectant look and nudges him slightly, foot tapping twice on the floor as further prompting to follow the instruction.

Not looking at Slade, Dick sinks to his knees, cheeks burning with humiliation. Roman's hand settles on the back of his neck, grip firm but not painful.

"He's harmless now," Roman says smugly. "Aren't you, sweetheart?" His grip tightens just slightly.

"Yes," Dick says quietly.

Roman's hand tightens again, this time digging his nails into the soft skin, and Dick barely keeps himself from hissing. It's a warning, but Dick doesn't understand why; he said what Roman wanted him to—

"I'm sorry, what was that, baby?"

Oh. No, no, _no,_ Christ. Could this get any more humiliating?

"Yes, Daddy," Dick gets out, trying his best to keep the tremor out of his voice. He can't even imagine what Slade must be thinking of him now.

"See?" Roman says with satisfaction. "Harmless. I'd let you try him out, but I'm afraid I'm rather possessive."

Well, at least Roman is aware that he can't kill Slade, because Dick doesn't know what he would do if Roman attempted to force him to... _service_ Slade. And he _really_ doesn't want to know what Slade's reaction would be.

"Might we get back to business?" Slade asks, sounding bored.

Roman chuckles. "Of course, of course. Apologies; I'm afraid I get rather caught up in the excitement of _owning_ him sometimes. I'm sure that's something you can understand; Nightwing has always been something of a pain in the ass for the world at large. _Now,_ though..."

The hand squeezes the back of Dick's neck again, pulling up slightly, and Dick moves with it, shifting into a high kneel. He keeps his eyes on the floor, even when Roman's hand shifts to tug on the collar, drawing attention to it.

"Well, now he's just a _good boy,_ aren't you, sweetheart?"

Roman's trying to humiliate him, to embarrass him in front of a perceived long-time enemy. He wishes that it wasn't working, that this didn't cut as deeply as it does. To be brought this low in front of Deathstroke the Terminator, a man whose respect he had actually been honored to hold.

"Yes, Daddy," Dick says quietly.

"That's right," Roman murmurs. He releases Dick's collar and his hand settles once more on the back of Dick's neck, pressing slightly to indicate that Dick can lower himself once again, which Dick does.

"Anyway, back to business," Roman says, tone offhand like he hasn't just been showing off. "My men are at your disposal, of course, though I know you tend to work alone."

"I do," Slade agrees. There's something in his voice Dick can't identify. "I won't require any assistance."

"All the same, it's available to you if you require it. Anything to get this done, and get it done quietly."

Slade makes a soft, derisive noise like a snort. "No need to worry about that."

"Oh, I'm not," Roman assures. "Your reputation precedes you."

"Might I use your bathroom?"

Roman's pause is infinitesimal before he says, "Of course. One of my men will show you the way."

Dick hears Slade get to his feet, cross the room, and then the door opening and closing. Dick doesn't move, completely still as Roman's fingers stroke across his skin, then up into his hair, brushing through the black locks.

"Stand up."

Dick does as he's told, looking to Roman. The man smiles at him, eyes shining, and pulls him to stand between his knees, hands lifting to settle on his hips.

"Look at you," Roman says, chuckling. _"Embarrassed,_ sweetheart? There's no need to be, we're just showing what you are now. I think you're divine."

"Can I leave?" Dick asks. "Please?"

He doesn't want to be used to stroke Roman's ego any more, because that's what this is. Roman is showing off, parading the fact that he's brought Nightwing to heel. He's cocky, and proud of himself. And being able to humiliate Dick on top of that is a bonus.

"Oh, no, no, no," Roman says, "we're not finished." He lets go of Dick and says, "Strip for me, Richard."

Dick's eyes go wide. "You can't be—you must be joking!"

Roman lets out a sharp breath, irritated, and Dick shudders involuntarily in response to the sign of his potential anger. Roman doesn't seem to notice, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and then looks back up to Dick.

"Richard, sweetheart, the next time you say that to me I'm going to bend you over and whip you raw, do you understand?"

"Daddy, please," Dick says desperately. "Please don't make me—not now."

"Strip," Roman says again, voice hard this time, an order.

Dick swallows, heart in his throat. His hands shake as he reaches to pull his shirt over his head, folding it and setting it on the floor. Roman's hand reaches up, fingers dragging across the revealed skin, his thumb just brushing the bottom of the brand, making Dick go rigid.

Roman chuckles and doesn't try to touch it again, just looks at Dick expectantly. Dick's hands go to the band of his sweatpants, and he closes his eyes as he slips them and his underwear down over his hips, letting them slide down his legs and then stepping out of them.

Roman's eyes drag up and down his body and he licks his lips. "Alright, back to your knees."

Dick folds back down, this time placed between Roman's spread thighs. The hardwood is cold beneath him, and Dick's pretty sure the only reason he isn't freezing already is because of all the heat rushing through him in response to his extreme humiliation.

Roman reaches down, taking Dick's hand in his own and then bringing it up to his crotch, making Dick palm him. Dick isn't the slightest bit surprised to feel that he's half hard, and he withholds a grimace as Roman hums in pleasure.

The door opens again, and Dick's cheeks _burn_ with humiliation at what a sight he must make. Roman's smirk is pleased and placid, like there's nothing out of the ordinary, and Dick turns his face into Roman's thigh, embarrassed and ashamed and wishing that he could just stop existing for a few minutes.

"You certainly conduct business in a unique manner, Sionis," Slade says as he steps back into the room, his tone something Dick thinks could be considered dry.

Roman chuckles and releases Dick's hand, which Dick snatches down quickly, curling it against his chest. "Guilty as charged. Now, I'd like you to check in regularly, if that's alright with you. I like to keep on top of things."

"You're the boss," Slade drawls.

"Excellent. Now, unless there's anything else...?" A silence, during which Slade must've made some form of decline, because Roman continues with, "Excellent. A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wilson."

Slade grunts something of an agreement, and then there are footsteps again.

Roman undoes his belt and pulls out his cock, smirking down at Dick as he places a hand on the back of Dick's neck and pulls him forward.

Dick opens his mouth without complaint, allowing Roman to push himself inside.

"Oh, and Mr. Wilson?"

Dick goes rigid, breath freezing in his chest. Slade isn't _gone yet?_ No, Slade has to be gone, Slade can't _see this._ Can't see Dick like—like—

"Yes?"

Dick squeezes his eyes shut and calls upon the trapeze. Everything's okay. Everything's perfectly fine. This is fine.

"Get my number from Max, would you? He has the line I'd like you to contact with any updates."

Slade says nothing, but he must agree, because Dick hears the door click shut and then Roman is thrusting forward, fucking himself into Dick's throat.

"Fuck," Roman hisses. His hand tangles in Dick's hair, gripping tightly, enough to be painful. _"Fuck._ You're all mine, sweetheart. And the world's going to know it one. By. _One."_

* * *

Jason is exhausted by the time he arrives back at his safehouse.

Patrol was particularly grueling, just one of those nights where all of Gotham seemed to be overly active, a crime on every corner. Five hours of non-stop action, and Jason wants nothing more than to pass out and sleep as long as possible.

Despite his exhaustion, he's very careful removing his gear, relieved when it's done and then crashing down onto his couch with a sigh. He tilts his head back against the back of the couch and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. His body aches; he knows he has a couple—minor—injuries he should tend to before he lets himself pass out, but that feels like so much effort. He knows he should make his way to the bed to sleep instead of the couch, but again— _so much effort._

Something is pressed against the back of Jason's head, and he's been in this business long enough to recognize the muzzle of a gun.

He doesn't move, continues to breathe, and then opens his eyes. It's dark in the apartment, him not having turned on any lights when he came in, so all he can make out from his position is the form of a large man standing behind the couch.

"I don't appreciate," the man says lowly, and Jason absolutely recognizes that voice, and thus who's broken in, "being manipulated."

"I don't recall manipulating you," Jason says, trying to keep his voice as even as possible; pissing off Deathstroke while the man holds a firearm to his head doesn't sound like a great idea.

The muzzle presses a little more firmly against his head in what Jason thinks is irritation on the mercenary's part.

"Don't lie, boy; you're not nearly as good at it as you'd like to believe. Not to me. You knew exactly what you were doing when you paid me to take a job for Black Mask. And I do not like. Being. _Manipulated."_

Jason's heart leaps in his chest. Does this mean that Black Mask _did_ hire Slade? And Slade saw Dick?

"Understandable," Jason says. "Sorry, my bad, I'll do better next time. But you saw him, right? You saw Dick?"

There are a few moments of silence, and then the muzzle pulls away. Jason lets out a quiet breath at the removal of the threat and then sits up a bit more, craning his neck around to get a look at Deathstroke.

Suddenly the lights go on, and Jason hisses, squinting.

Slade is completely decked out in his Deathstroke regalia, weapons and mask firmly fixed in place, impossible to read. He doesn't sit down, instead choosing to loom over Jason as he approaches, and even though Jason's quite dangerous himself, he can't say it isn't an effective tactic.

"You're going to want to start talking," Slade says, "and hope I like your answers."

Jason grimaces. Involving Slade at all was a big risk—as the others reminded him of time and time again—and going about it this way even riskier. But he couldn't trust that him just _telling_ Slade what's going on with Dick would be enough to get him to help; it's always so much stronger to see something with your own two eyes. Whatever weird dynamic the pair of them have had over the years, Jason's pretty sure there's at least _some_ level of fucked up fondness there; so if Slade saw Dick, if he saw what Black Mask is doing to him, maybe he'd have to help.

Even if he was royally pissed at Jason for the underhanded tactics.

"What do you already know?"

There's a momentary pause, maybe Slade thinking over how he wants to answer, and then the mercenary says, "Black Mask knows all of your identities and is using that as leverage. Grayson's been there about three months."

Jason nods, exhaling. "Yeah. Yeah. Okay, so, it's basically that. Longer, though. Anyway, Mask has multiple copies of the information and a dead man switch of some kind; we've been trying to figure out a way to get Dick out of there without having our names released, but so far unsuccessful. And Dick absolutely won't leave willingly, not with this hanging over us."

"How did he end up with Sionis in the first place?" Slade asks. "It seems a little out of left field to me. If Sionis was going to turn anyone into his sex slave—" Jason flinches, stomach churning, "—I would assume it would be you, given your history."

"Turns out Dick has even more history with Mask than I do," Jason mutters.

Slade's answering silence is a clear prompt for more information.

It's one thing to tell the rest of the family the things that have happened to Dick, but telling Deathstroke? Sure, they're not completely enemies, Jason doesn't think, but this is still _Deathstroke._ He could use this against Dick, could spread the information around, could do any number of things that would hurt Dick in the long run if it happens to benefit Slade. Roy and the others cautioned him, warned him how badly this could go, and Jason _knows—_ but what else is he supposed to do? This is their best shot.

He can't leave his brother there with Black Mask. If sharing some personal things with Deathstroke the Terminator is the price, then dammit Jason will pay it. He can ask Dick's forgiveness later, once he's back where he belongs.

"When Dick was seventeen, Bruce kicked him out of the house. Fired him. Dick got super drunk, Mask found him, and then y'know..." He waves a hand helplessly through the air.

Slade leans against the wall, folding his arms over his chest. Jason wishes he would take that stupid mask off so he could see his face, maybe get some sort of read off him.

"Well, he had Dick for a few weeks. And then a couple years later, I, uh, _died,_ and Bruce..." Maybe sharing the hitting part with the dangerous mercenary isn't the best idea. "Well, kicked Dick out again. And Black Mask found Dick again, had him for a month that time before Dick got himself out. And now this—Mask isn't taking any chances of Dick getting away again. He's fixated, and he's—he's hurting Dick."

Slade snorts. "I'll say."

Something cold settles in Jason's gut. "What did you see?"

"Grayson's not in the best shape of his life," Slade comments offhandedly. "You know, up here." He gestures towards his head. "Such a loyal, subservient little bird. Sionis is a lucky man."

Jason's lips curl back from his teeth. "He's raping him."

"So I gathered," Slade drawls. "It was rather obvious what _Daddy_ was doing to his _sweetheart."_

Jason stares at him. "I—what?"

"You have no idea," Slade says, voice low, "what state Grayson is in. You have _no idea."_

Jason bristles and gets to his feet. "You have no right to say that! Mask has been sending us shit, _showing_ us what he's doing to Dick. We know _exactly_ how fucked up this situation is—"

"You misunderstand me," Slade cuts in. "I don't mean physically. I mean mentally. It's actually impressive, how thorough the conditioning is. How... _broken_ Grayson is. I'm sure there are many villains who would like to get a few tips from Sionis; quite a few more that would send him a congratulatory scotch. Grayson's quite the sight as he is now."

Jason's hands curl into fists. Green pushes at the corner of his vision, his mind speeding.

"You're trying to bait me," Jason says between gritted teeth. "But I don't know _why._ Pissed that I manipulated you into this situation? Sorry. Now how about we move forward and start working to get Dick out of there."

Slade cocks his head. "Excuse me? Why would you think I'd help you with that?"

"Don't give me that bullshit, there's no way you're actually okay with this. You're gonna help."

Slade laughs at him, a cold sound. "You stupid boy. What did you think was going to happen here? I see Nightwing broken down and decide I need to _rescue_ him? Did you delude yourself into thinking I'm a _hero?_ I'm a _mercenary,_ one who's been hired by Black Mask. Thanks to you, if you recall. And I'm going to fulfill my contract, and then get the hell out of this shit city."

"You—you can't be serious," Jason splutters. No, no fucking way. "You— _no._ Alright, fine, then name your price."

"No."

"What the fuck do you mean, _no?"_ Jason yells.

"It's a very simple word," Slade says coolly. "It means _no,_ I will not play your game. You lost your chance, boy. You lost it the instant you decided to play me. I have no intention of working with you at all."

He starts heading towards the window. Jason's heart slams in his chest.

"It's Dick!" Jason shouts. "It's—it's _Dick."_

Slade pauses, one leg out the window, foot on the fire escape. He says nothing.

"You can't—you can't pretend you're actually okay with this," Jason says. "I know you're not a hero, I'm not saying you are. I'm just saying—I'm just saying that you feel _something_ for him, don't you? You can't possibly want him to spend his life as Black Mask's plaything."

Deathstroke leaves without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till next time! As ever, hope you enjoyed :)
> 
> Edit: The wonderful [ForeverWhelmed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForeverWhelmed) has created [fanart](https://foreverwhelmed.tumblr.com/post/624318267804254208/the-knife-shifts-dragging-down-a-little-and-then) for this chapter!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess we've hit month five! Pretty neat 😊
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Graphic depictions of violence
> 
> With _that_ ominous warning out of the way, go forth and enjoy!

Roman's in a mood.

He wasn't, a few hours ago. No, a few hours ago he seemed content. _Happy,_ even. Slade's visit yesterday seemed to put something of a pep in Roman's step, though whether that was about whatever task the mercenary had been given or about being able to humiliate Dick and show his superiority, Dick doesn't know. Whatever the reason, it had left Roman calm and confident, a feeling which had carried overnight and remained in the morning.

Dick certainly will never complain about Roman being in a good mood, especially when it's not really at his expense, so Dick kept quiet and kept to himself, not willing to draw any attention to himself and accidentally provoke some sort of reaction from Roman.

The day had gone well. Then around four, he left for a meeting. Nothing really all that unusual, nothing for Dick to take any note of, not after all this time. Not when it truly doesn't matter; Roman will do what Roman wants to do, and Dick can't stop him. What's the point in getting curious when curiosity will end in nothing but pain?

So, Dick spends some time in the gym one floor below the penthouse. It's nowhere _close_ to the one in Bludhaven, or even any fully stocked gym in either city, but it was built for Roman's men, so it has a few treadmills and punching bags and various weights equipment. Roman never said Dick wasn't allowed to go there and none of the men complain, so Dick claims a treadmill and starts running.

Afterwards he takes a shower and reads some, and when it hits 5:45 he heads for the kitchen.

Roman's chef Meera is a no-nonsense kind of woman who doesn't appreciate people getting in her way when she's working, but sometimes she allows Dick to assist, if she's in a relaxed enough mood. Only chopping vegetables and the like really, but it's something to do, and Dick's always like those methodical tasks anyway.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Meera asks when she spots him in the doorway, which Dick doesn't find nearly as funny as she apparently does going by the smirk on her face, but he does take it as permission to enter.

He washes his hands at the sink and then looks to her expectantly. Meera examines him appraisingly, blowing out a sharp breath to blow a loose strand of frizzy gray hair out of her face where it's fallen loose from her bun.

"Alright, there are tomatoes you can chop," she says, and then turns dismissively back to her own task.

Dick grabs the cutting board and a knife and sets them out for himself, then washes off a few ripe tomatoes to cut.

She corrects him twice while he works, despite there being absolutely nothing wrong with his preparation skills, but ultimately allows his "mangled" tomatoes into her dish, as well as the onions she gives him to chop, before telling him to get out of her way.

"Dinner will be out shortly," she says. "Now get out."

Dick follows the instruction without a word; he can never tell if she likes him or is simply tolerating him, but either way he doesn't want to risk getting on her bad side.

When he gets to the dining room, he's surprised to see that Roman isn't already there. Dinner, every night, is at 6:30 sharp; everything runs like a tight ship in the Sionis household. And Roman is always at the table first, working on something or reading or just enjoying a glass of wine.

But now? Nothing.

Dick sits down, looking around curiously, but the world around him is silent. He can faintly hear the guard outside the main entrance to the dining room shifting, a sneeze from someone down the hall, but otherwise it's just him and a large, empty room.

The food is brought out, a serving placed in front of him and also in front of Roman's chair. Dick's brow furrows with confusion, glancing around again, but still no Roman.

It's...probably fine.

He starts eating, knee bouncing under the table, and he completely freezes when fifteen minutes later footsteps approach and Roman appears.

The man doesn't look happy, the content mood from earlier apparently gone. His expression is pinched, his eyes dark, and his clothes are slightly disheveled, some of his hair messed out of its normally perfect style.

At one time, Dick might've asked what the hell happened to him. But Dick knows better by this point, so he says nothing, continuing to eat and watching Roman warily from the corner of his eye.

Roman doesn't say anything, just yanks off his coat roughly and hands it off to one of the guards who entered with him. They look just as disheveled as Roman, and Dick is less restrained about examining them, looking for signs of injury or blood and finding none.

"It's fucking cold," Roman grits out after having taken a bite from his plate. "What the fuck am I paying for, with them bringing me cold food?"

Dick absolutely does not point out that it was perfectly hot at 6:30, the time Roman always expects to have his food ready.

But apparently his silence draws Roman's attention anyway—or maybe it was simply inevitable—and the man turns cold eyes towards him. Dick stays still, barely breathing, and Roman sneers at him before getting to his feet.

Then Roman turns on his heels and strides out of the room. Dick is thankful to note that it's in the opposite direction of the kitchen, so at least Meera isn't about to be snapped at just for doing her job.

When Dick finishes his meal he hesitates, glancing around again. Usually, he has to wait for Roman to dismiss him from the table before he can leave. Yeah, it's clear that Roman's probably not thinking about that at all right now, but there's always the possibility that if Roman's in the mood to pick a fight, he might pick something stupid like this. Saying Dick didn't follow his order, even though he's not even here.

Dick waits an entire ten extra minutes before he's able to shake himself enough to just stand up and leave; he can't sit there all night on the off-chance that Roman will be more approving of it in the minute possibility that he even remembers, considering how he seems to have something else already going on.

He's taken no more than three steps out of the dining room and heading in the direction of the living room when he hears, "Richard," called out sharply.

 _You've got to be kidding me,_ Dick thinks as he turns around to face Roman. The man's standing further down the hall, frowning at Dick. His suit jacket is gone and his shirt is unbuttoned and untucked.

"Yes?" Dick says hesitantly.

Roman frowns at him for another moment in silence, then another, and another. Then he says, "Come here," and turns around, walking away.

Dick swallows the uneasy feeling in his gut and does as he's told, following the path Roman took and ending up at the man's office.

Dick really, _really_ hates this room. This room never brings good things, not once. It's only ever more torture or just skating by to the next day. And considering Dick's most recent memories of the room are being brought low in front of Slade and having his chest branded, Dick can't say he's eager to step inside again.

Roman is actually sitting on his desk when Dick enters. One leg hangs off the side and the other is curled up, his foot tucked under the thigh of his other leg.

"Shut the door behind you," Roman instructs, and Dick does so.

"Hi," he says cautiously. He stays by the door, unsettled by the look on Roman's face. There's something about it, something almost inhuman, but Dick doesn't know why he thinks so. There's maybe a... _wildness?_ A wildness, to Roman's eyes, definitely to the state of his dress.

"Come here," Roman instructs again. There's a note to Roman's voice Dick doesn't like but cant describe; it isn't an edge, not quite, at least not in the way Dick is familiar with when it comes to Roman.

And despite the fact that he doesn't want to, Dick walks forward, stepping up in front of Roman. The man's eyes drag over his face for a moment and he reaches out, curling his fingers through Dick's pants' belt loops and using that to tug him even closer. One hand releases and reaches for the button of his pants, which he rips open without care, shortly followed by the zipper.

"Roman?" Dick says, voice hesitant. "Are you...okay?"

"Perfectly fine," Roman tells him, but his lips are curling in an irritated sneer. "Are you questioning me?"

"No," Dick says quietly.

Roman's response is a growled out, "Good."

His hands go up to undo the buttons of Dick's shirt, but he's no sooner undone the first one before his irritation seems to grow, a rough noise making its way out of his throat, and then he _yanks,_ ripping Dick's shirt open halfway, the buttons going flying. Dick feels his pulse speed up at the unexpected show of force, and he takes an involuntary step back.

That proves to have been the wrong move, because Roman's inhuman expression twists even further with fury and _malice._ The man immediately follows him, off the desk in a nanosecond and beginning to back Dick up.

"Roman," Dick says, raising his hands peacefully. "What's going on? Are you—?"

The slap across the face catches him by surprise, stunning him for a moment and allowing Roman to back him against the wall.

"I don't want to hear you talk," Roman tells him, voice a low rumble, and Dick looks at him with wide eyes. It's not that Roman's never struck him before, because he has, but those times at least made _sense._ Dick doesn't understand what's happening—

"Roman—" Dick tries again, and Roman's hand wraps around his throat. The grip is immediately painful, tighter than Roman's ever actually gone, and Dick gags against the feeling, mouth dropping open in a desperate need to draw in air.

"Roman," Dick gasps, reaching up to pull at the man's hand. "R-Roman, stop—"

"Quiet," Roman snarls, and it truly _is_ a snarl, an animalistic sound that shakes down to Dick's bones. Roman pins Dick to the wall, crowding him, hand around his throat. Dick's face still stings from the hit. "I'm so _sick_ of you _always_ talking—"

Dick sees, then. Roman's eyes, swallowed by black, dilated almost as far as they could go.

Drugged. He's drugged.

Relief sweeps through Dick; the way Roman's been acting, the strange anger, the wildness, the sudden way he attacked—now Dick has an explanation. And not just an explanation, but he has a reason to fight back. Roman might've instructed him to never raise a hand against him, but that didn't account for a Roman out of his mind.

Driving his elbow into Roman's solar plexus is extremely cathartic, as is the punch to the throat he follows it up with. It creates the desired response, Roman stumbling a step back, and Dick immediately takes the opening, running for the door. He flings it open and begins sprinting down the hallway, pulse thudding in his ears.

What does he do now, though? Would the guards help him? They're loyal to Roman and have certainly never cared for Dick's wellbeing; but it's different when their boss has been _drugged,_ right? That's something they've got to care about, right?

He heads for the elevator, skidding to a stop in front of it. The two guards there look at him, startled, and Dick wonders what he must look like; shirt hanging half-open with ripped-off buttons, barefoot, pants undone, clearly having been running—yeah, probably not his best look.

"What the hell happened today?" Dick demands as firmly as he can, voice breaking halfway through the sentence from how tightly Roman had gripped his throat.

One of the guards—Dick thinks his name is something like Tom—frowns at him, and then looks down the hall he came from. Probably wondering where Roman is. "That's Mr. Sionis' business, and if he hasn't told you, then it's not our place."

"He's out of his fucking mind!" Dick shouts back. "He's dr—"

"Richard."

It's months and months of conditioning that has Dick freezing at the cool fury in Roman's voice, whirling around. Roman's standing there, the perfect picture of rage, gaze locked onto Dick. The guards snap to attention and stay silent, clearly not wanting to draw their boss' ire, and don't change when Dick looks to them again pleadingly.

"Come here."

"Roman, you're not in your right mind," Dick says, beginning to back up. "You don't really want to do this!"

Roman smiles at him, barely more than a baring of his teeth, and stalks after Dick. A predator in every way.

Okay, escape is out; those guards aren't going to budge from the elevator. Which means Dick needs to get himself to a place Roman can't reach him, while he waits for whatever is in his system to make its way out. The bedroom door is reinforced, and can be locked from the inside; if he can make it there, and keep Roman out, then he's safe.

Plan in place, Dick turns on his heels and takes off.

He makes it to the bedroom, crossing the line with a rush of relief, but as soon as he whirls around to slam the door shut, Roman's there, using his considerable strength to bang the door open. Dick jerks back to avoid getting hit by it, but it clips his ankle, sending him crashing to the floor. He scrambles back, needing to get space between them and get to his feet, but Roman moves faster, coming down on him and punching him across the face.

It dazes Dick for a moment, but he's spent the last seventeen years of his life getting hit and pinned, and it doesn't take him long to get his bearings back. He wraps his legs around Roman's waist and _twists,_ throwing the man off of him. He springs to his feet, ready to head back out the door, but Roman grabs a handful of his hair, yanking him back.

Dick shouts, stumbling, and drives his elbow back into Roman's gut. It makes the hand in his hair release, but there's an arm around his chest jerking him back, tossing him onto the bed. Dick rolls with it, using the momentum to dive to the other side, but Roman on top of him before he gets too far, pinning him face down, layering his body on top of Dick's.

"Roman, stop!" Dick shouts, and then screams when Roman leans in to _bite_ Dick's neck, hard enough to draw blood. Dick thrashes, tossing his head to try to headbutt Roman and release the grip, but it only results in Roman reaching up again to grab his hair, using the hold to press his face against the comforter, blocking his ability to get air.

Dick thrashes again, kicking out, but everything goes fuzzy very quickly, and he falls limp, limbs heavy from oxygen deprivation.

There's a jerk on his neck, a clicking sound, and then a pleased noise from Roman. "There," he growls. "That'll keep you still."

The hand in his hair releases, and Dick jerks his head up, gasping in air. And suddenly Roman is pulling back, just far enough that Dick can twist under him and pull up his legs to kick Roman away. It works, Dick has room to move, and he throws himself off the bed.

Or he would, if at the last second he wasn't jerked back by something around his throat.

He looks up in a panic, finding that Roman's connected the leash to his collar, tying him to the headboard. Dread fills Dick, and he looks at Roman, who climbs right back on top of him, features twisted in fury.

"Roman, don't!" Dick tries, but Roman punches him across the face to silence him. Dick twists, trying to wiggle away, and manages to kick Roman in the groin. Roman howls like a wild animal, rearing back, but the victory isn't much of a victory since Dick can't _move._

Dick sits up a bit, tugging at the leash, reaching up to try to undo it. Roman attacks again, punching Dick in the gut with his considerable strength. Dick feels something crack and shouts, curving instinctively to protect the area, and then tries to kick again when Roman rips his pants off.

"No, no, no—" Dick says. "Roman, _stop—!"_

Dick throws a punch; Roman catches his fist and twists his arm, then _slams_ it against the wall. Dick's vision whites out for a moment from the pain, but he feels Roman rip the rest of his shirt open and off, leaning in to bite at the revealed skin. It hurts, like Roman is trying to take chunks out of him, and with his uninjured hand Dick keeps trying to undo the leash—he _knows_ there's a mechanism, knows there's some way, there _has to be a way—_

A click, and it comes loose. Dick's heart speeds up even further, the potential escape at his fingertips. Roman yanks at him, trying to move him into a lying down position again, and Dick moves faster than he ever has, jerking forward to wrap the leash around one of Roman's arms and then connecting it to itself, tying Roman to the headboard.

Roman snarls, jerking, and Dick takes the opportunity, diving off the bed and scrambling away backwards, not stopping until his back is against the wall.

Roman tries to follow after him and growls when he finds himself unable to, scratching at the cord around his arm. Coherent thought seems to have left him, his fingers fumbling over the latches and headboard far more like a trapped animal than a tied-up human.

Dick pants, watching Roman with wide eyes, and doesn't move. His adrenaline is starting to crash, his injuries catching up with him. All of him hurts, and his head is _spinning._ Now that the fight's over, he can barely keep himself conscious.

He passes out to the sounds of Roman's struggles to free himself, curled up in the corner, body aching.

* * *

"Richard."

Dick stirs, drifting towards the surface, everything hazy. Everything hurts.

"Richard, wake up."

Dick blinks his eyes open, squinting against the bright morning light, and lifts his head from where it's tucked against his knees. The room spins for a moment and he blinks heavily until it rights itself, and his vision focuses on the man standing by the bed.

Dick sucks in a breath, jerking back against the wall. Roman's free—he got himself out—Dick has to run—

But Roman's just standing there, watching him, expression devoid of emotion. He's clearly back in his right mind, clearly over whatever drug was in his system, but Dick can't help the way his heart picks up a little with fear, memories of last night flooding his mind.

"Stand up," Roman instructs him. His tone isn't cruel, isn't demanding, it's just...empty. Perfectly even. Perfectly controlled.

Hesitantly, Dick pushes himself to his feet. He winces, his body screaming protestations at the action. God, is there a single part of him that doesn't hurt? He can't even evenly distribute his weight, pain lighting up when he puts weight on his right ankle, the one caught by the door. He cradles his arm against his chest, trying to ignore the way it throbs, and then looks at Roman warily.

Roman's eyes go slowly up and down his body, lips pursing. "Follow me," he says when he's done examining Dick, and then heads towards the door, steps neither hurried nor slowed. Even. Everything about Roman is perfectly even right now.

Dick limps after him, frowning down at the dark bruises around his right ankle. He's only wearing underwear, he notices. He's covered in bruises. And all of it hurts.

"Sit," Roman tells him once they reach the living room, pointing to one of the couches, and Dick does as he's told, eyes tracking Roman as he walks away and out of sight. Dick's tense, pulse racing. He can't seem to suppress the feeling.

When Roman returns a few minutes later, he has Carson James with him. Roman gestures towards Dick, and the doctor makes his way over to him, blinking in surprise as he sees the extent of the injuries.

"Hi, Dick," Carson greets. "Mind if I look you over?"

Dick just nods, attempting to offer the doctor a smile, but it comes off more as a grimace. He keeps his attention on Roman, watching him out of the corner of his eye as Carson goes through his examination. Roman moves over to the bar cart and pours himself a full glass.

"Does this hurt?" the doctor asks, prodding at his chest.

"Yes," Dick replies quietly. Talking hurts.

"Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

"Does this hurt?"

"Yes."

One by one, Carson clinically checks him over, taking a penlight out at one point and checking his pupils, then asking him a few questions. Dick recognizes the test for a concussion.

Eventually the doctor is done, and turns to Roman.

"He's really not in good shape," Carson says, and if Dick didn't know better he'd say there was a hint of reproach in the man's voice. "I'll need x-rays to be sure, but from my examination I'd say he has a couple cracked ribs, maybe even broken; his arm is _definitely_ broken, and he will need a cast. His ankle is sprained. I'm pretty sure his cheekbone isn't broken or cracked, but it's certainly bruised. Some of these bites need stitches. He's got a concussion, and his trachea might be damaged, considering the bruises and compression." Carson shakes his head. "It's gonna take a while for him to heal from this."

Roman nods, still expressionless. "We'll come into your office later for the x-rays. You can go now."

The doctor purses his lips, glancing at Dick, and then nods, heading for the exit. Dick resists the urge to tell him to come back, to stay between him and Roman as a buffer, as a layer of protection. Which he hates himself for, because he's Nightwing. He shouldn't need protection. But...

Dick watches Roman warily, tensing when the man takes a few steps towards him. He knows Roman isn't going to attack him again, that it was the drug and he's better now, but he can't get it out of his head. The pure violence, the way Roman came after him—

"I had a run-in with Poison Ivy yesterday," Roman tells him dispassionately. "I offered her a business proposal, and she was quite uninterested, and quite displeased by my presence. She said something about men being animals, and sprayed me with some toxin of her own design. It took a while to set in, apparently. Long enough that it seemed it had been ineffective and I was fine, and thus ignored the situation entirely. But it apparently built up, until it took control."

He stops talking then, watching Dick right back. Dick doesn't say anything.

"I regret this," Roman says, but he doesn't sound regretful. In fact he doesn't sound much of anything, like all emotion has been sucked right out of him. "This should not have happened. I will be taking steps to make sure it does not happen again, and I will be having words with Ivy." His eyes narrow, the first sign of anger after all of this, and Dick tenses reflexively. "I am not a fan of having people take my control away from me."

Dick still says nothing. There's nothing to say.

"Go lie down," Roman tells him. "This afternoon we'll go to Carson's office, get the x-rays and whatever stitches you need, but for now, rest. I'll have someone bring you ice and some aspirin."

Dick nods, and pushes himself to his feet. His ankle protests the motion, threatening to buckle beneath him, and he reaches out a hand to steady himself on the back of the couch before he's sure he can make it back to the room unassisted. It'll hurt, but he'd rather do it by himself than have Roman's hands on him, not when his mere presence still feels like a threat.

* * *

His trachea is, in fact, damaged, but luckily it's what Carson refers to as the Group 1 Schafer-Fuhrman Classification, which is apparently a very fancy way of saying they don't need to cut a hole in his throat to treat the injury. Instead some antibiotics and humidified oxygen and he's good to go.

(Carson advises that Dick really should be in an ICU so that his condition can be closely monitored while they're still in the early stages of this thing, but Roman says no, and both Carson and Dick know not to push the issue.)

He has two cracked ribs and another bruised. His arm is broken, and his wrist has a torn ligament. As Carson said, he gets a cast for that, and Dick hates that it makes him smile when Carson offers to give him a colored cast like kids get.

(Dick chooses blue, for obvious reasons.)

His cheekbone is bruised. He has a mild concussion. His ankle is sprained. Three of the bites Roman tore into his skin need stitches, a total of sixteen stitches required.

(Carson tells him that they'll likely scar. Dick isn't surprised, but he's...Well. How do you think he feels, learning that he'll live the rest of his life with Roman's teeth marks scarred into his skin?)

And then they head right back to the penthouse, Dick with a bag full of medication and strict instructions on a schedule for them all.

Roman has barely looked at him the whole day. When Dick was roused from his rest (see: passed out from pain and exhaustion and fear), Roman had only instructed him to get dressed and offered him assistance if he required it, and then left the room, waiting by the elevator until Dick arrived.

Then in the car ride, Roman's attention was firmly fixed on his phone. Through Carson's various tests, his focus was far more on the tests themselves and Carson's observations than actually on Dick.

The car ride back is the same as the first, and Dick is far too exhausted and in pain to determine how he feels about Roman's freeze out.

As soon as they get back to the penthouse, Roman vanishes. Dick stares after him, blinking heavily, and then looks down the hallway towards their bedroom. He wants to lie down, and maybe sleep for a week, but it's so very...far.

Living room it is, then. Far closer, and those couches are big enough that he can still lie down and sleep.

Carson gave him crutches to keep him off his sprained ankle, but they're really hard to use when mixed with his broken arm, concussion, and general bodily pain. So he ends up forgoing them, leaving them by the elevator and shuffling off to the living room slowly, grimacing all the while.

He was given pain medication, and it's numbed some of the pain, but Carson was hesitant to give him too much drugs because of the concussion. Which really fucking sucks, considering how bruised and beaten his body is right now.

He lowers himself carefully to the couch, sighing as he takes pressure off his injured ankle. It takes him a minute to find a comfortable position, but eventually unconsciousness takes him despite the way his ribs twinge unhappily at his horizontal decision.

He's so very thankful for sleep, because at least for a little while he won't have to deal with any of this.

* * *

He wakes briefly, some sort of bang startling him into awareness, but he slips down again almost immediately after.

* * *

Dick's eyelids flutter open, something he can't identify pulling him from sleep. He still feels a little distant, a little floaty from the concussion and the pain medication Carson gave him, but he's not so out of it that he doesn't recognize Slade Wilson standing above him, staring down.

Dick just blinks back up at him, not having the energy to do anything more than that. He feels _exhausted,_ and his whole body seems to ache. He can see Slade's sharp gaze sweep briefly up and down his body where Dick lies stretched out, expression unreadable as he surely takes in the obvious injuries marking Dick's body.

Dick doesn't have it in him to try to decipher the look in Slade's eye, to figure out what the press of his lips means. He looks...angry, maybe? Disgusted? Dick couldn't blame him, if he is. What a picture he must make, branded and body broken, all at the whims of Roman Sionis.

"You look like shit," Slade says.

Dick nods slightly. Yes, yes he does. And Slade can't even see what his chest and stomach look like, the horrible bruises that do, indeed, look just as bad as they are. But he's sure the cast on his arm, the brace around his ankle, and the bruises across his face and around his neck are enough to understand that there was a rather violent altercation, one that didn't have Dick coming out on top.

"Can I help you with something?" Dick asks. His voice comes out scratchy, a little hoarse. Roman's grip around his neck last night hadn't exactly been a kind thing, and his throat is still very sore. Plus his bruised trachea coupled with his cracked ribs is making breathing a little challenging, and his effort to keep them even and shallow enough to not hurt means his voice is made even weaker.

Whatever that non-expression on Slade's face is, it deepens at Dick's response.

"Sionis wants to see you," Slade says, and Dick doesn't have enough control over himself at the moment to suppress the way he tenses, the way his jaw clenches, both reactions painfully obvious to the enhanced mercenary standing above him. Can most likely hear the brief uptick in his pulse, too.

Dick knows Roman isn't going to hurt him again, especially not like last night. He knows he's not in any danger from Roman right now. But knowing Roman was drugged doesn't change the fact that Dick was completely and utterly _terrified_ last night.

He's always known Roman can be scary, hell he's been on the wrong end of that more than once. But this was so different, this was unrestrained violence, this was a willingness to completely break Dick's body in order to...well, to rape him, considering how Roman had been ripping his clothes off. Knowing he wasn't in his right mind and knowing he won't be doing it again doesn't stop Dick's instinctive reaction to hearing that Roman wants to see him being very primal _fear._

Slade's eye narrows a little.

Yeah; Dick's disappointed with the fact that he's this weak, too.

"Got it," Dick says, grunting as he forces himself into a seated position. The pain meds he's on dull the throbbing of his ribs as he sits up, but he's not on as much as someone normally would be for his vast array of injuries. Fucking concussions, man; they screw with everything, even when they're mild. But no, he has one, and thus he gets less medication.

Just more pain for Dick.

Hurrah.

Next is the really challenging part—standing, and making his way to Roman's office. He stares down towards the hallway that leads there, trying to eye the distance, preparing himself to make the journey on his busted ankle and with the rest of his body screaming at him.

A large hand settles on his shoulder and he jerks away, sucking in a sharp breath. When he looks up, he sees Slade still standing there, expression still unreadable, now with his hands raised peacefully.

"Easy," Slade says. "You look like you could use a hand."

"I'm fine," Dick grits out. Fuck, how pathetic must he look? Maybe as bad as he feels. "I'm fine."

Slade says nothing to that, and his expression doesn't change, but Dick still gets the impression of disbelief off of him.

He can't do much these days, but he can get himself to Roman's office by himself. He doesn't have to lower himself any further in Slade's regard.

It's slow going and painful, and he can feel Slade's eye on him the entire way, but he does it, making his way to Roman's office.

He pauses outside, staring at the pair of double doors, trying to psych himself up. It's fine. Roman's not going to hurt him. Will probably barely even _look_ at him, if any of this day has been an indication. Still, Dick's not complaining, it's nice to not have Roman's intense attention; but it's still so _unsettling,_ especially with everything else that happened.

Dick takes a deep breath, lets it out, and then raises a fist to knock.

"Come in," Roman's voice calls from inside, and Dick does as he's told, hesitantly entering the room.

Roman is sitting behind his desk, attention focused on the computer in front of him, and whatever he's currently writing in the folder off to the side. His eyes flick up momentarily, identifying who it is, and then right back down to his work.

"Caleb packed a bag for you. He's waiting by the elevator."

Dick blinks. "Where am I...going?"

"Wayne Manor."

Dick can't _breathe._ Home? Roman is sending him _home?_ Did he break their deal, somehow? Is Roman ending this? Did he release the identities? Fuck, did someone _die?_ No, Dick couldn't handle if someone was dead, not after all of this. He's been through too much for one of his family to—

"Why?" Dick asks.

Roman glances up at him again. Normally, a question like that would draw a cocked eyebrow, maybe a mocking smirk and comment. But still he gets nothing from Roman, blank and calm and unruffled.

"This is not permanent. When I send a car to pick you up, you will get in it and come back here without delay. If you attempt to delay, you will be punished. Do you understand?"

Dick nods mutely, still struggling to understand.

"Good. Now go."

Dick goes.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~3:07am EST take that Mori~~

Dick feels nauseous.

He shouldn't, he knows. He should be excited. Relieved. He's going _home,_ going to see his family, get to sleep in his own bed again, eat Alfred's food. Everything he's been wanting for _months_ is about to happen.

But he just feels...sick. Anxious. And so _exhausted._ Though that last one, at least, he can attribute to his injuries.

Oh god, his injuries. They're all going to see his injuries. There are going to be so many questions, and so many looks, and he's going to have to explain...And that's not the only thing he'll have to deal with. There will be _so many questions._ So many pitying looks. So much anger. He knows his family, he knows they're not going to just be able to sit down and hug him until he has to leave.

The bag Caleb packed for him has enough clothing for five days, but Dick doesn't know if that's because Roman really is leaving him here for five days or if that's just some extra preparedness. It's not like he gave Dick any indication of a time table, just said that he'd send a car at some point and Dick would have to get in it. At any point, Roman could call him back. At any point, his time with his family could be cut off.

All Dick wants is to sit on the couch and watch a movie with his family. He wants to curl up under one of those fuzzy blankets he knows are still in his room and put on a pair of themed pajamas and just _be with_ his family for the first time in _months._

He's so terrified he's not going to get that. That they're all going to be on edge, or ask a million questions, or look at him with that _look,_ that pity and anger. They'll want to stop him when he has to leave, will force him into the position of fighting against their interest, like they're on opposite sides.

They shouldn't be on opposite sides.

He's doing this for _them,_ it's all for them. So they can keep living their lives without fear. So they can do their jobs with assurance that they'll still have jobs to go back to. So they can be friendly and have relationships and not be afraid that their civilian friends will be targeted just for knowing them. Dick knows what that's like, and he would never wish it on them. He'll do everything in his power to protect them all, he always has and always will.

He'll always throw himself on the grenade for the greater good, especially when that greater good is the well-being of his family.

And he's so afraid to see them again. For them to see...

Well. See what he's become.

The car pulls up the long road towards the Manor's front door, and Dick fights back his rising nausea.

It's going to be fine. It's his _family._ They're going to be happy to see him, for as long as he can stay. This is going to be a good vacation away from Roman.

They pull to a stop in front of the Manor, and Andy—in the passenger seat—gets out of the car and opens the back door for Dick. Dick scoots out, ignoring the nip in the air as he eyes the Manor warily, a place that was once so familiar but now feels like a distant memory.

It's only been about three months, but it feels like an entire lifetime.

Caleb grabs his bag for him, and offers the crutches that they brought with them. Dick accepts one of them with a grimace, allowing Andy to help him get situated on it, and then begins heading towards the front steps.

He looks at his guards then, and Caleb places his bag on the steps next to him.

"Do you need anything else?" Andy asks, and when Dick shakes his head, he says, "Alright, then we'll be going. See you soon."

They turn and head back to the car. Dick watches as they start it and take off, and keeps watching until the car vanishes into the distance. Then he turns back towards the front door of the Manor, takes a deep breath, and raises his hand to the doorbell.

He counts in his head, and reaches thirteen before he hears footsteps. The lock clicks undone, and then the door is swinging open, revealing Alfred. The man is dressed just as finely as he always is, and Dick watches his polite expression shift immediately into shock upon seeing who's at the front door.

"Master Richard," Alfred breathes.

"Hey, Alfie," Dick greets, offering a tired smile. "Been a while."

Alfred seems to shake himself, and his eyes flick over Dick's injuries sharply, taking it all in. It's a familiar look, the same one Alfred always gives them after a particularly grueling patrol, and the familiarity of it has Dick's heart panging in his chest, horribly comforted by the man's presence.

He—God, he _missed_ Alfred something horrible. The man has always been reliable, a stone pillar that Dick knew he could always count on, even when nothing else seemed to be so. Even when Bruce was at his worst, Alfred was always welcoming and strong, never standing for Bruce's rage, always saying Dick was welcome in the Manor. Alfred has always stood for Home just as much as the Manor itself, and Dick has to swallow past a lump that forms in his throat.

"Yes, it certainly has been," Alfred agrees. "Come inside, then, it's cold out."

The man leans down and takes Dick's bag in his hand, then steps back to allow Dick entry. Dick shuffles forward, feeling Alfred's eyes on him the whole time, ready to jump in if Dick loses his footing.

The door shuts behind him, and Dick sighs at the heat of the Manor, tilting his head up to look around. Everything looks the same; same old Wayne Manor, hasn't been changed in a hundred years. Certainly not this part of the building, that's for sure. Further in Dick knows you can start to see signs of _life,_ signs that a family really lives here with all their little touches, but this is the entryway of the long-standing Wayne Family, not the gaggle of orphans Bruce took in.

"If I may say, Sir," Alfred says, drawing Dick's attention back to him, "it is _very_ good to see you again."

Dick smiles gently, but feels his chest tighten; how are they going to react, knowing he can't stay? It's going to break their hearts, destroy their hope. He doesn't want to give them hope only to rip it away. Why did Roman send him here? Why would he do this?

"It's really good to see you too, Alfred," Dick says, voice soft. "It's—I'm not..." He swallows. "This isn't permanent."

Alfred's lips pinch, eyes sad. "Right. How long do we have you, then?"

Dick shakes his head a little. "I don't know."

Alfred simply nods. "Any injuries that I should see to?"

Dick fights the urge to wince. "I have all the medication I need," he says, glancing at the bag. "And everything's been checked over by a doctor. I promise."

Alfred makes an acknowledging sound, but going by the way his gaze lingers on Dick's neck, he knows the man isn't satisfied.

"Well, come now; let's get you situated. Then we can call Master Bruce to tell him that you're here."

Dick says nothing, trying to ignore the dread that fills him.

Seeing Bruce...how can he face him, after everything that's happened? Especially after—after Jack, and everything that happened with him. Even if Bruce hadn't been sent the video, hadn't seen what Dick had done, had been responsible for, _Dick_ would know. He wouldn't be able to meet his father's eye. And now that Bruce _has_ seen it...Dick's so ashamed, so disgusted. Bruce surely will feel the same.

_You belong right here. Made to be used._

Bruce knows now. He saw it. Saw Dick beg, and come, and be put in his place. Reminded of his place.

_What are you good for? At least you can be useful like this._

"Master Richard?"

Dick blinks and looks over at Alfred. The elder man is watching him with concern, and Dick clears his throat awkwardly, glancing away.

"Sorry, Alf," he says. "Spaced out there for a minute. Let's go."

Alfred nods slowly, and Dick is grateful that he doesn't press, instead beginning forward, leading the way back to Dick's childhood bedroom. The man moves slowly, making sure he stays close enough to Dick to be able to catch him if he stumbles or begins to fall, but manages it in a way that doesn't feel condescending.

They eventually make it to his room—though by the time they reach the top of the stairs, Dick is exhausted—and Dick sits down on his bed, glancing around. Alfred immediately goes about unpacking his bag, telling some story from his week as he does so. Dick lets the words wash over him, a smile tilting his lips at the familiarity of it, the comfort Alfred brings simply by being himself.

"Now, then," Alfred says, drawing Dick's attention. "Is there any specific order for these medications?"

He's put out all the various things Dick is supposed to take on the bedside table, and Dick eyes them with some distaste before reaching into his pocket to pull out the schedule Carson gave him, passing it to Alfred without a word. Alfred examines the sheet and then begins organizing the medications.

"Alf, you don't have to—"

"Master Richard, if I require your input, I will ask for it."

Dick laughs lightly at the prim tone, and just nods his acceptance. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a slight smile tilting Alfred's lips as well.

"Right," Alfred says when he's satisfied, turning to look back at him. His eyes flick up and down Dick sharply before he asks, "I don't suppose you'll allow me to examine you, then?"

Dick thinks of the brand over his heart, the bite marks, the bruises that decorate his chest and stomach _(and thighs and ass)._ Nausea churns in his stomach again at the idea of Alfred seeing all of that; sure, Alfred's seen him in all states of dress and injury over the years, but this is...different.

So he shakes his head. "Maybe later, Alfred," he offers at the man's disappointed look.

"Alright," Alfred says sadly, but stops there, clearing his throat and then beginning towards the door. "I'm going to call Master Bruce and inform him of your presence. Why don't you rest in the meantime, Master Richard."

As Alfred reaches the door, Dick calls out, "Hey, Alfred?"

The man pauses and turns back to face him, expression expectant but patient.

"Can you...can you call me Dick?" He hates how vulnerable his voice sounds, how vulnerable he feels asking this question. It's such a stupid, pointless thing to ask. Whiny. Immature. Ungrateful.

_Are you ungrateful, Richard?_

"Master Dick is fine," Dick rushes to add. He can't bring himself to look at Alfred. "But he—it's...can you..." He trails off into silence, cursing himself. Stupid.

"Get some rest, Master Dick," Alfred says gently, and Dick's head snaps up in surprise, eyes wide. But Alfred doesn't look frustrated or anything like it, just... _kind._

"Right," Dick croaks back, blinking back tears. "Thanks, Alf."

"Of course," Alfred says, inclining his head in a small bow, and then he's gone.

Dick lies back on the bed, grimacing until he finds a position that doesn't hurt overly much, and closes his eyes. It doesn't take long for sleep to take him, not with the exhaustion that hangs heavy on his shoulders, and he's grateful for it.

* * *

Dick drifts back into consciousness at the sound of a conversation close by.

"Let him rest, Master Bruce," Alfred says, voice hushed. Dick's pulse ticks up, and he keeps still, giving no indication that he's woken up. It isn't too hard to fake; his body still wishes he was asleep, his limbs heavy and sore, his eyelids happy to stay firmly closed.

"How is he here?" Bruce says back, just as quietly. It's the first time Dick's heard Bruce's voice in a very long time (outside of a hallucination, at least), and the sting in his eyes takes him by surprise, as does the urge to call out for Bruce, get his father to come hold him and let him cry.

"I don't know."

"Did Sionis let him go? And what _happened_ to him?"

"He said this isn't permanent," Alfred replies sadly. "I don't know why that man allowed him to come home, nor what happened to incur those injuries. Though considering his reluctance to let me examine him, I can only imagine they were caused by Black Mask."

Bruce takes a slow breath in, and lets it out. Dick's pulse is thrumming quickly, and he wishes he could see the look on Bruce's face, read what the man must be thinking.

"Christ, look at him. He looks beaten half to death." Bruce's voice is rough and pained, a sound that startles Dick; he can't remember the last time he heard Bruce sound so...torn apart.

"It only gets worse up close," Alfred murmurs. "His neck is...there's an actual handprint, Master Bruce."

 _"Fuck,"_ Bruce curses, voice raising slightly, and then the pair of them fall completely silent, not even their breaths audible. Dick can feel their gazes on him, and fights the urge to shift under them, knowing they're probably checking to make sure they haven't woken him.

"Let's go," Alfred says quietly. "He needs his rest. You can ask him all your questions later."

There's a moment of silence, and then footsteps approaching the bed instead of heading towards the door. Dick fights the urge to tense at the approach.

"Master Bruce" Alfred begins.

"I'm just going to sit with him," Bruce whispers back, right at the bedside. "I won't disturb him, I just..."

"Of course," Alfred says, voice gentle. "Let me know if you need anything."

Footsteps towards the door as Alfred departs, and Dick hears Bruce sit in the armchair right next to Dick's bed, the one that was never moved back to its original position after the last time Dick was injured and the chair was brought close to allow his family to be close. Dick had woken up that time with Tim in the chair and Damian curled up at the end of the bed.

Dick hears Bruce shift forward, and then feels his hand gently settle over Dick's own, the touch light in what's surely an effort to not wake Dick. After that, Bruce doesn't move, and Dick allows the quiet, even breaths of his father lull him back into sleep.

* * *

The next time Dick wakes up, the room is darker.

He glances towards the window, sees the sun setting over the city in the distance. He's been out a couple hours, then.

Turning his head to the other side, he finds Bruce still sitting in the armchair, watching him with an unreadable expression. Dick swallows nervously and sees Bruce's gaze shift down towards his throat and the extensive bruising that covers it.

Well, they might as well get this over with.

"Group One trachea damage," Dick begins, and Bruce's gaze snaps back up to Dick's face. "Bruised cheekbone, mild concussion. Two cracked ribs, one bruised. Broken arm, a torn ligament in my wrist, sprained ankle. Sixteen stitches over a handful of small cuts on my chest." He's not specifying that they're bitemarks; he'll keep that to himself as long as possible. "That's the extent of the damage."

Bruce doesn't say anything for a long moment, drawing in a slow breath and then letting it out. His hands are clenched on the ends of the armrests.

"Will you tell me how this happened?" Bruce asks levelly.

Dick grimaces. "It wasn't his fault."

Bruce's expression spasms, the wood creaking under his hands as his grip tightens. Dick realizes suddenly how that sounds, eyes widening at the implication that he's trying to take the blame away from Roman in what looks like a clear example of Roman hurting him.

"I mean it," Dick insists. He pushes himself up with a grunt, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Bruce twitch forward like he wants to help before restraining himself, allowing Dick to get settled with his back against the headboard by himself.

"It wasn't his fault," Dick says again tiredly. His head is throbbing, and he glances at the table of medication longingly, but he wants to be clear-headed for this conversation. The concussion is already impeding him slightly; he doesn't need to purposefully further along his fuzziness.

"Dick, your injuries—"

"Are because of Poison Ivy," Dick says firmly. Bruce's mouth clicks shut, and his eyes narrow in clear request for an explanation.

"Roman got himself into an altercation with Ivy," Dick explains. "She sprayed him with something..." The furious curl of Roman's mouth flashes in Dick's mind, the pools of black that were his eyes, the vicious way he came after him. He has to suppress a shudder. "It seemed new. It took his mind away from him, and he attacked me. He didn't choose to do this to me, Bruce."

Bruce is breathing deeply again, clearly angry, but Dick doesn't know why; he explained how Roman had no control over his actions, there's no need to blame Roman for this. Especially when there are a hundred other things for which are perfectly reasonable to give the man the blame.

"Alright," Bruce says tightly. His gaze flicks over Dick again, momentarily lingering over Dick's heart, and Dick's cheeks flame with shame as he realizes Bruce must be picturing the brand.

"Where's everyone else?" Dick asks, not wanting to allow Bruce any time to mention it, if he's planning on it. He doesn't want to hear Bruce's thoughts on the matter. The longer he can pretend Bruce might not be ashamed of him, the better.

"Cassandra is downstairs helping Alfred in the kitchen. Tim and Damian are on their way, and as of yet we've been unable to get a response from Jason, but I'm sure as soon as he learns you're here he'll come right over."

Dick's brow furrows in confusion. "Tim and Damian are on their way from _where?"_

Bruce looks away, grimacing, but his voice is perfectly even when he says, "Damian has been staying in the Wayne Foundation penthouse apartment, Cass and Tim taking turns staying with him."

That does nothing to alleviate Dick's confusion. If anything, it just makes it worse. "Why the hell has Damian been staying there? He's only twelve, he should be at home!"

Bruce looks like he's debating something for a moment, glancing at Dick with a critical eye, and then he says, "The others thought it would be a good idea to keep Damian somewhere else for the time being, after learning about..." He swallows, and his eyes look away again, unable to look at Dick for some reason. "About the occasions when I hit you. For now, he's staying there, with either Cassandra or Tim."

Dick blinks. What does Bruce hitting him have to do with Damian? "Why? It's not like you'd ever lay a hand on them."

Maybe he puts more emphasis on _'them'_ than he intended, because Bruce looks sick for a moment before he smooths out his expression into something resembling blank.

"I should never have laid a hand on _you,_ either," Bruce says stiffly.

Dick suddenly feels extremely awkward, and he looks everywhere else except at Bruce. He tongue twitches over towards his back molar, the replaced tooth where the one Bruce knocked from his mouth used to sit. Bruce always had his reasons, it's fine. Dick accepted it all a long time ago. He doesn't see why they all have to make a fuss over it _now._

And, okay, maybe the Court of Owls stuff was only about a year ago, the most recent incident. But that was a one-off. They're always one-offs. And Dick knows that Bruce would _never_ touch Damian, Tim, or Cass. They're safe in the Manor. What's happened to Dick doesn't matter.

Jason's words from months ago come back into his mind suddenly; _"Alright, tell me something, Dickie—if Bruce hit Damian, outside of training, what would your response be?"_

Dick pushes it from his mind as quickly as it came.

"Well," Dick says awkwardly. "You, uh, said something about dinner?"

Bruce just looks at him for a long moment, something Dick can't decipher in the man's expression, and then Bruce nods. "Yes. It should be ready soon." He glances at the table of medication. "Do you need to take any of that now?"

Yes, he does. "I can handle it," Dick says, releasing Bruce if the man thinks he has some sort of duty to help. "I'll be down soon."

Bruce doesn't move for a few seconds, and then stands stiffly, nodding. "Just shout if you need help getting to the dining room."

"Okay," Dick agrees, and waits until Bruce is gone to reach over and pick up the sheet of Carson's instructions.

"About time he left."

Dick turns sharply, pulse racing at the sudden voice coming from over by the window. Are they being attacked? Is someone sneaking into the Manor?

And then he immediately regrets his sharp movement, because it makes his entire body throb, his injuries protesting the motion. He gasps for air, hand raising to his chest, and sees the man the voice belongs to climb in through the window, shutting it behind him.

"How long," Dick gets out as he tries to regulate his breathing again, "were you listening in?"

Jason shrugs a shoulder carelessly, glancing around Dick's room. "I arrived around the time he attempted to apologize to you for hitting you without actually apologizing."

Dick furrowed his brow, thinking back. Is that what that was? He used to always be able to read between the Bruce lines, understand what Bruce was trying to say when he couldn't actually say it. But that really went right over his head.

"And why, exactly, are you sneaking in through my bedroom window?"

"My last meeting with Bruce wasn't exactly warm and fuzzy," Jason says vaguely.

"When is it ever?" Dick mutters. He turns carefully back towards the bedside table and picks up Carson's sheet again, reading it over to see what he's supposed to do. Carson went over it all when they were at the office, but it really went in one ear and out the other considering how out of it Dick felt. Still feels. Christ, this is going to take a while to heal from.

He hears Jason approach, and his brother steps up beside him as Dick reaches for the bottle of antibiotics for his trachea. Both he and Jason simultaneously seem to recognize the issue that's about to come—with his left arm in a cast, it's not like he has the ability to open the bottle of medication, not with the child seal on it—and Jason reaches out, slowly enough to allow Dick to track the motion, and then plucks the bottle from his hand.

"How many of these?" Jason asks, and Dick is incredibly grateful for the lack of pity or gentleness in his brother's voice. He just sounds _normal,_ like this is any other injury.

"Two," Dick says quietly. Without a word Jason shakes two out and passes them to Dick, then heads over to the bathroom. Dick hears the sink turn on and then off, and his brother returns with a glass of water. "Thanks."

"So," Jason says after Dick's taken the antibiotics, and then one pill from the pain medication bottle. "You get mauled by a lion?"

Dick huffs a laugh, and suppresses the grimace that wants to follow as his ribs twinge. "Near enough," Dick replies wryly. He wants to match Jason's ease, especially when it's clear his brother is _trying._ This is a thousand times better than whatever the hell that conversation with Bruce was. But it's hard to joke about his injuries when the way he got them still sends a shiver down his spine.

"Poison Ivy has a new drug," Dick tells Jason. "Makes people really violent. You guys are gonna want to look out for that."

Jason narrows his eyes slightly, eyes flicking down to Dick's neck, and Dick feels a spark of irritation; _yes,_ he knows it looks awful. But he'd really appreciate it if people would stop _staring._

"I'll look into it," Jason says. "Promise."

Dick remembers the last time he asked Jason to promise him something. He has no idea if he followed through about making sure someone was at Damian's art show, but he definitely knows Jason didn't back down from involving other people in an effort to get Dick out. That was made _abundantly_ clear with the arrival of Slade.

"Jason," Dick begins, trying to stay calm. It's hard, though. Because now he's remembering how helpless he felt in front of Slade, how humiliated, how _weak._ Jason did that, brought Slade onto the board in some bullshit plan that isn't going to go anywhere. He put Dick in that position, blindsided him and made him feel...dirty, in front of someone who respected him.

"Why did you pay Slade to take a job for Roman? Why did you—why did you bring _Deathstroke_ into this?"

Jason's expression twists and his eyes dart away, guilty. "Things weren't progressing as well as I wanted them to. We kept hitting walls...he was going to help."

 _"Why_ would you think he would help?" Dick asks incredulously, voice raising slightly. "He—fuck, Jason he doesn't really do things out of the _goodness of his heart,_ and he sure as fuck doesn't like being _forced_ into positions—"

"What else was I supposed to do, Dick?" Jason shoots back, his voice raising to match Dick's own. His hands ball into fists at his sides. "It was a risk, I get that, but what the hell else was I supposed to do? Just _leave_ you there?"

"Yes!" Dick shouts. Jason jerks back, eyes going wide. "Yes, Jason! You're supposed to leave me there! Do you have any idea what I—"

He cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut. His hands are shaking. He takes a few deep breaths.

"Dick," Jason says softly. "Do you honestly expect us to do that? Just let Sionis win? Let him have you?"

_You belong right here._

Dick laughs sadly, shaking his head a little, and opens his eyes again. Jason looks so—fragile in front of him, despite his large size, despite the guns strapped to his thighs. So unsure. So...desperate. To free Dick, to not let Roman get away with this. Dick remembers when he was desperate to be free, too. But he knows better by now. There's no escaping Roman. Jason has to accept that before he gets himself hurt.

The whole reason Dick is with Roman in the first place is to protect his family. He can't do that if they keep trying to circumvent Roman's rules. All it would take is them pressing Roman's buttons _just enough_ for him to say _'to hell with it'_ and release their identities, then watch the chaos fall around them.

What if Slade had been feeling less than magnanimous? What if Slade had decided to tell Roman about Jason's little plan? Dick can't even imagine how Roman would've reacted to that. It would've been so very far from good.

"Yes, Jason," Dick says on a sigh. "Yes, I do expect you to."

_"Dick—"_

'No," Dick cuts in sharply. "No, listen to me. You all—it's commendable, that you all want to help me. Really, it is. But you need to accept the fact that it's _pointless,_ okay? You—it's not happening, Jason. And the fact that you called in _Deathstroke_ of all people shows that you're desperate. You're realizing there's nothing you can do for me. So please, I'm begging you, just accept it. Just— _please,_ Jason. You're not going to win this fight."

"Would you give up?" Jason challenges. "If it was one of us in your position, would you ever stop trying to get us out?"

The idea of Roman putting his hands on any of his family—no, no Dick can't think about it. He knows what Roman's truly capable of, and the idea of one of his brothers being subjected to that...

"It's different."

"Why the _fuck_ is it different?" Jason shouts.

_Because none of you deserve it. None of you were stupid enough to get mixed up with Black Mask. None of you are broken like I'm broken. All of you are worth so much more than being property to Roman Sionis. And I'm just...not._

"Your hypothetical isn't relevant," Dick says instead, because he knows Jason wouldn't have a good reaction if Dick said any of that. "Because none of you _are_ in my position, thank God for that. Give up, Jay. Please. It's been three months; aren't you _exhausted?"_

Jason glares at him. "How can you say that? God, do you hear yourself, Dickie?"

_Christ, Grayson, look at yourself._

"I'm not gonna stop just because you think it's pointless or dangerous; I can take care of myself."

Unbidden, Nicola's face pops into Dick's mind. His smile, the gentle way he cupped Dick's cheek when he leaned in to kiss him. The sad look in his eyes when Dick talked about Roman hurting him. The _question_ when he touched Dick, instead of a _demand._

He's dead because of Dick. Dick won't be responsible for Jason's death, he wouldn't be able to handle it. If Jason keeps pushing and Roman gets wise to it, if Roman decides he's had _enough,_ then his brother is dead or his identity released, and Dick _can't_ let that happen. It would—it would destroy him for good. He's already a fractured, broken version of himself. But if one of his siblings died because of _him?_

"Jay," Dick sighs.

He doesn't know how to make his brother understand what a lost cause this is, how worthless this quest of his is. Dick knows how hard it is to let the bad guy win; he knows it must burn at Jason to cede ground to Black Mask, a man he's despised since the beginning, but it's necessary. Jason can't win this fight, not with everything on the line, not when the fight isn't worth winning.

But Jason's not ready to accept any of that, that's as clear as day. He'll get there, there's no other way. He'll see how pointless this crusade is, and he'll let it go. He'll leave Dick, let Roman win.

Dick can only hope Jason realizes before he gets himself hurt.

"Will you stay for dinner?" Dick asks, changing the subject.

Jason's mouth twists unhappily, clearly still amped up and not feeling done with the conversation.

"Come on," Dick says, trying for humor, "you wouldn't leave me to face Bruce's emotional constipation alone, would you?"

Jason closes his eyes and sighs, his posture deflating. He steps forward and sits down next to Dick on the bed, brow furrowed as he looks down at the floor. Dick prepares himself for Jason to continue trying to talk about this, for him to continue arguing his point.

Instead, Jason says, "It would be unfair of me to challenge you to a race to the dining room, huh?"

Dick laughs, a smile breaking out on his face, and lightly hits his brother's shoulder. Jason smirks back at him and hops back to his feet.

"Come on, Dickiebird," Jason says. "Alf'll kill us if we're late. And don't get me _started_ on the baby birds."

Dick's heart seizes in his chest. Tim, Cass, Damian. _Damian._

"Let's go, then," Dick agrees readily, and pushes himself to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an accidental Hamilton reference in this chapter (aka I didn't realize until I'd written the line that I was using a line from the show, and then I had to pause writing to go watch it all again of course). Gigantic kudos to you if you spotted it!
> 
> Till next week everyone :)


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got more art, and y'all, we're crying in this Chili's tonight. Trust me, getting art for my writing is just about the most amazing thing, and I _love_ looking at them, it warms my black little heart like nothin' else.
> 
> My biggest thanks to all you wonderful humans who have created art for this fic, and now I hope you enjoy the chapter!

Dick can hear his heartbeat in his ears as they make their way through the Manor towards the dining room.

It's been over a month since Dick saw his other siblings and his...and Damian. And before that, a month and a half. Too long, _way_ too long. He wants to run, to get there as fast as he possibly can. But these stupid fucking injuries keep him moving at a glacial pace.

Jason has his arm linked through Dick's good one; he'd given the excuse of it being amusing, a joke, but the way Jason is bracing shows his true intention—helping Dick to walk, taking some of his weight to make it easier. Doing it in a way that doesn't feel pitying, or put upon. Dick's eternally grateful for it.

The pain medication is, thankfully, fast-acting, which lessens some of the full body _ache_ that Dick has been dealing with. Takes the sharpness out of everything, at least. Makes it easier to manage. Will make it easier to downplay his injuries in front of the others, too; he might not be able to change what they already see, but he'll be damned if he allows them to completely view him as an invalid, or to wonder about what he's hiding under his clothes.

When they—eventually—reach the dining room, Bruce is already sitting at the head of the table. Cass is standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen, her attention fixed down that way, and Dick can faintly hear Alfred's voice talking to her.

Bruce glances up as Dick and Jason approach, and his surprise at seeing his second son is clear. It's quickly followed by a look Dick can't quite interpret, the man's hands tightening around the tablet in them.

"Jason," Bruce greets, making an effort to be civil. "I didn't hear you arrive."

Jason makes a dismissive noise as he helps Dick over to his seat at the table, and Dick completely ignores their interaction as he settles down, glancing around with a small smile. It's been so long since he's been here, so long since he's sat in _his_ chair in the dining room, sitting down to share a meal with his family. It's...kind of wild to be doing it. He's so used to Roman's table, to the arrangement there.

Never in Dick's life before this would he ever think of having a meal at the Manor and considering it _novel._ But that's how it feels nonetheless.

As Jason sprawls out in a chair next to Dick, Cass comes over to the table. She smiles when she and Dick lock eyes, and Dick can't help but grin back at his little sister.

She approaches, quickly covering the distance of the room until she's standing by Dick's chair. Her eyes and her hand are gentle when she touches him, smoothing his hair back. Dick leans into the touch with a sigh, and Cass presses a kiss to the crown of his head.

"Missed you," she murmurs. "Love you. Always."

Dick closes his eyes, a lump lodging in his throat. Trust Cass to strike right to the heart of everything with just a few words. Maybe he doesn't deserve it, but _damn_ is it nice to hear.

"Same to you," he says, blinking his eyes back open to look up at her. She runs her fingers down the side of his face, and despite how feather-light her touch is he has to fight a wince. Cass simply nods, expression not shifting, and draws back. She smiles at him again, and then moves back around the table to sit across from Dick.

As she goes, she squeezes Bruce's shoulder gently; Bruce momentarily blinks at her in what looks like surprise before he masks his expression.

"So," Jason says, drawing the word out into the dead silent dining room. "When do the younglings arrive?"

"Any second, really," Bruce answers. Dick sees Jason's hand tighten into a loose fist briefly before relaxing. "Cameras caught them pulling up towards the Manor about a minute ago."

Dick can hear his heartbeat in his ears. Just a few seconds. Just a few seconds. Just a few—

A door opens and closes, the sound echoing. Dick's head jerks around, and it's only a few moments later that Tim and Damian appear in the doorway. They both freeze there, gazes falling on Dick.

Tim's eyes are wide, something desperate in them, and he scans Dick quickly, soaking in his presence in the same way Dick does, instinctively checking his little brother for injuries. He looks exhausted, for sure, large bags under his eyes much like Jason and Bruce, but otherwise okay. He isn't holding himself like he's in pain, either, which is good; Tim's always been the worst of them at hiding injuries, something that Dick's always been grateful for. At least with _him,_ Dick doesn't have to worry about possibly missing something.

Damian's eyes go wide as well when his gaze first lands on Dick, but then quickly narrow. His lips press into a thin line and he swallows, his nostrils flaring, hands balling into fists at his sides. He looks okay too, Dick sees, no visible injuries. And though he's always been excellent at concealing them, Dick knows Damian extremely well, and it seems like he honestly is okay. Physically, at least. It's a gigantic relief.

"Jay," Dick says softly, looking at his brother, and Jason knows immediately what he needs, offering a hand without a word as leverage so Dick can push himself to his feet.

In the next moment, Tim is rushing forward. Dick opens his arms to accept him, and is already bracing for what is surely going to hurt as Tim reaches him, throwing his arms around his middle and hugging him tightly.

Yeah, that hurts. _Fuck,_ it hurts, but Dick breathes past it, wrapping his arms around his little brother in turn. He can feel the teenager shaking slightly and once again feels a lump lodge in his throat, swallowing past it.

"Hiya, Timmy," Dick says. It comes out a little breathless as he tries to stave off the pain in his chest and practically everything else. But this is worth it, absolutely worth it.

"Hi," Tim responds, voice muffled against Dick's shirt. His hands clench in the fabric of it over Dick's back, and Dick can't stop the way his breathing hitches for just a moment as the grip tightens.

Tim springs back immediately, eyes going wide again and some guilt creeping in, but Dick doesn't let him go far, keeping a hold on one of Tim's shoulders with his non-casted hand and smiling.

"Hey now, I don't think I smell _that_ bad," he teases.

Tim grimaces for a moment, eyes darting across Dicks face and down to his neck before jumping quickly back to meet his eyes again.

"I don't know," the teenager says, doing his best to match Dick's tone and mostly failing; Dick appreciates the effort nonetheless. "You've definitely smelled better."

Dick huffs and ruffles his brother's hair, smiling at the disgruntled look that takes over his features as he jerks back to fix his hair. Dick's gaze drifts past him towards the boy who still hasn't moved out of the doorway.

Dick wants to walk over to Damian, wants to go to him and crouch in front of him, but both of those are things he knows he can't do without giving away how much moving hurts, and that would surely spook Damian. He can't risk that, not when the boy is _so close._

"Gonna stay over there all night?" Dick asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Dinner might get cold."

Damian purses his lips, still glaring, hands still small fists, but he _does_ begin to stride forward, approaching the table and Dick. He stops a few feet away, though. Out of arm's reach. Dick feels like screaming.

"Grayson," Damian says stiffly.

"Dami," Dick says softly, and Damian twitches.

One night, a very long time ago, Damian had a nightmare. It wasn't the first, it wouldn't end up being the last, but it was the night Dick started learning Arabic in earnest. The boy was shaking from half-remembered dreams of his grandfather hurting him, and Dick had pulled him close and called him _Dami,_ and Damian had informed him that in Arabic, _dami_ means _my blood._

The boy had been telling him as if that would make Dick stop, as if Dick knowing that the nickname was claiming something as important as that would make Dick not want to use it anymore. As if Dick wouldn't double-down, as if he wouldn't call his kid _Dami_ at every possible opportunity. Because Damian might not actually be Dick's blood relation, might not actually be his son, but he is in every way that matters, and Dick would call him his blood a million times over if it makes Damian feel accepted, feel loved, feel _wanted._

"Taeal huna, dami," Dick says.

Damian draws in a breath through his nose and then does as requested. His movements are stiff, the set to his jaw upset, but he walks forward until he's right in front of Dick.

Dick reaches out slowly, like Damian is a wild cat he doesn't want to startle, and takes a gentle grip on the boy's upper arm, pulling him closer. Damian doesn't resist, allowing Dick to tuck him close. Dick puts his good hand on the back of Damian's head, his other arm wrapping around the boy's shoulders. He ducks his head, pressing his forehead to the top of Damian's head, and closes his eyes, releasing a slow breath.

Damian doesn't move for a long moment, and then Dick feels his arms lift hesitantly, wrapping around Dick. He buries his face in Dick's chest much like Tim had, and Dick strokes his hair, feeling the tension slide out of his body at having Damian in his arms again.

"It's good to see you, kid," Dick tells him.

"Your presence is...acceptable, I suppose," is Damian's response, and Dick laughs. He straightens slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of Damian's head and smoothing back his hair.

"If everyone would take their seats," Dick hears from behind him, and glances back to see Alfred, "dinner will be served momentarily."

Damian pulls back, and Dick regretfully lets him go. The boy doesn't glance at him as he walks around the table to sit between Cass and Tim, and Dick sighs and retakes his seat, grimacing as he settles.

Glancing at Bruce shows the man has his eyes on Damian, too, clearly restraining himself, and Dick feels a well of pity for him; Dick knows better than most how it feels to suddenly have your kid not be living with you anymore, and it must be a thousand times worse since Damian is _actually_ Bruce's son.

The room falls completely silent. Dick can feel everyone subtly glancing over at him, all of them trying—and, quite frankly, _failing_ —to pretend that they're not staring. Dick ignores them all, taking a casual sip from the water glass in front of him and glancing around casually, examining the room.

Thankfully Alfred quickly brings the food, which gives them all something to do other than sit and awkwardly wonder what to do next.

In the past, whenever meals turned stilted or tense for whatever reason, Dick always stepped in and distracted everyone from what was wrong, or engaged them in conversation, or did _something_ to break the tension. And Dick wants to do that now, he really does. He wants to make his family feel at ease, wants them all to relax.

But he just...he doesn't have it in him. He wishes he did, wishes he could make everyone feel better. But he's just _exhausted._

"Can I get you anything else?" Alfred asks him when he comes back into the room to check on them all. Dick's barely touched the food on his plate; another thing he'd like to do is _eat,_ but he's really not hungry.

"No, thank you, Alfred," Dick says, offering a smile. "It's delicious, I promise."

"If you're sure, Master Dick," Alfred replies doubtfully. Dick hears a couple people choke.

"I'm sorry, _what?"_ Jason says, and Dick looks over to see the younger man with an incredulous look on his face. Tim is much the same, and Damian to a slightly lesser degree. Cass simply has her eyebrows raised.

"What?" Dick asks, confused.

"He called you _'Master Dick',"_ Tim says, gesturing towards Alfred. "He has _never_ agreed to call you anything other than Richard. Hell, he still calls me _Timothy!"_

Dick shifts, trying to not look as uncomfortable as he feels. "Ah. Well. Um."

"Maybe you should get kidnapped and blackmailed, Timmy," Jason says casually, and Dick blinks, lips parting. "Then you can get Alfred to call you whatever you like."

"Jason," Bruce says sharply, eyes narrowed, and Jason turns to glare right back at him. The table around them is silent, everyone with wide eyes, still processing the fact that Jason actually just said that. How insensitive. How rude. Making light of a horrifying situation.

And Dick begins to laugh.

He brings a hand to his chest, wincing, the laughter hurting but not stopping. The wide eyes have swung to him, concern tinging the looks, but Jason is hesitantly laughing with him and Cass is smiling and the tension has drained from Alfred's shoulders, so Dick counts this as a success.

"Who's up for board games?" Dick asks, still smiling, and gets a chorus of agreements.

They make their way to the living room, Jason helping him walk much like he had before, with the addition of Bruce hovering nearby while pretending to not be hovering.

Dick listens to his siblings bicker around him as they get settled, debating the various games and what to play first, and only smiles and nods when _Sorry_ is placed on a table in front of him.

Damian sits very close on one side, Cass on the other, and Dick settles between them with a content sigh. It's becoming harder to focus the more time passes, exhaustion from the injuries and lack of sleep and the medication all coming together to make Dick want to pass out quite a bit.

But this is so fucking nice, he's not sacrificing a single second of it just because he's tired. He forces himself to focus as much as he can, forces himself to continue engaging with them all. He's missed them _so much_ these last few months. And now here they are, playing a few board games like everything's okay, like he gets to have this.

Like Roman isn't going to call for him at any moment.

Dick refuses to let that spoil this. He pushes the thought from his head as brutally as he can, locking away all thoughts of Roman and what the man may or may not do at some point in the future. It does nothing but cause anxiety, and it takes a lot of energy to be anxious. He'd by far rather be happy.

Though, he knows better than most just how much energy being _happy_ takes, too.

After a long while, Dick hears Bruce's phone chirp, and he's very familiar with the sound. Going by the way everyone else glances at each other and then at him and then back to each other, they recognize it, too.

"Well, go on," Dick encourages.

Bruce frowns. "Maybe—"

"Bruce," Dick interrupts. "You all need to go on patrol. I'll man the comms with Alfred." When no one moves, Dick sighs in exasperation, trying to offer them all a reassuring smile. "Go, I'm not gonna vanish in a puff of smoke before you get back."

He could be lying, though. He could have to leave before they get back. It's unlikely for Roman to have done this for just that short a time period, but still entirely possible. It could turn out that halfway through their patrol, Dick has to leave.

But he can't think about that. And he can't let that stop them from doing their jobs.

"You'll radio if you need anything?" Tim asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

Dick rolls his eyes good-naturedly at his brother. "I've been injured before, Timmy. I know what to do if I need help."

Tim purses his lips and doesn't say that this isn't like all those times before; they all know.

Dick follows them all down to the cave, taking the elevator.

Much like the Manor, stepping back into the batcave after so long is a very strange experience. He's spent countless hours, days, weeks, _months_ of time down here, ages nine to twenty-six. The place is one of the most familiar places in the world to him, but suddenly he feels...alien, like he doesn't belong here.

It's probably his imagination, but the _RS_ brand over his heart seems to burn for a few moments.

Dick shakes it off, heading towards the computer bank with Alfred. He ignores the way his family members all hover slightly, all watching him out of the corner of their eyes as they set about getting ready, as they drag their feet so they can keep eyes on him for just a little while longer.

He doesn't begrudge them this; he'd be much the same in their position.

He pretends to not notice it all the same, logging into the computer and chastising himself for the surprise that hits him when his password still works; of _course_ it still works.

A chat message pops up on the screen: _Hey, Hunk Wonder. Long time no mess up my programs_

Dick's lips curve up into a slight grin, and he leans forward to type a response: _New number, who dis?_

He gets an unimpressed emoticon in response, and his grin widens, fondness filling his chest.

"Alright," Bruce says when he's all suited up, fiddling with his gauntlets in an unusual sign of disquiet. "We'll just be one call away. If you need anything at any point—"

"You'll all swoop down like mother hens, I remember," Dick agrees, crooking a smile at his father. Maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe he and Bruce _can_ be in the same room without something going horribly wrong or feeling horribly out of place. Maybe this trip doesn't have to be awful between him and his dad.

But then Bruce turns away slightly, looking over to where Cass and Tim are messing around with something, and his cape swishes out behind him. And suddenly Dick can see it draped around him as Batman—as _Jack_ fucks into him, can feel the fabric against his naked thighs—

Dick swallows back the nausea and turns away, shame filling him.

"See you after patrol," he calls back, keeping his attention resolutely focused on the computer screen in front of him as he pulls up their various comm frequencies and starts quickly refamiliarizing himself with the system.

This isn't the first time Dick has filled this kind of role—any time he was too injured to go into the field, this is what he would do—and it's almost _fun_ to slide back into it. Communicating with Oracle, relaying police calls, organizing the heroes to go where they're most needed; it's nice to be _useful_ again, to someone other than Roman. Useful for a real cause. These last few months his only use to his family has been keeping Roman happy so that they stay safe, and so contributing to their work as heroes, it's...

Well, it's a really nice change of pace.

At one point he excuses himself, needing to use the bathroom, and politely declines Alfred's offer to help him there.

Glancing at himself in the mirror makes him cringe; yeah, no wonder they've all been staring, he's a _mess._ The left side of his face is a mess of dark bruises, pitch black in some areas in a way that almost makes the skin look dead even though it's just bad bruising caused by being tossed around.

And that's not even touching on his neck. Alfred was right, earlier; you _can_ see the shape of Roman's hand, see where he _squeezed,_ how violent he got, how it felt like he was going to rape Dick and kill him afterwards and not even care—

Dick closes his eyes, feeling himself starting to hyperventilate. That'll just upset his ribs and his trachea and he'd really rather not exacerbate already bad injuries. He's fine, everything's fine. Roman was drugged, and Dick got away. Dick's been hurt worse than this in the field. Not often, but it's happened. He's fine. Everything's fine.

Avoiding looking at his face and neck, Dick carefully lifts his shirt, wanting to get a look at the bites on his chest to check them over.

They seem okay, the kind of inflammation that means healing and not infection. But the one higher up, the one one his shoulder at the base of his neck—that doesn't look normal. That looks...

"Dammit," Dick curses, and lets his shirt drop back into place. "God fucking _dammit."_

Because he knows he needs to get someone else to look at it. He has medication to help stave off infection and help everything heal the way it should, but those are useless if it's already infected. He needs someone to examine the wound and tell him whether or not it really is infected, and help him treat it if so.

"Dammit," Dick says again, throat thick with tears. He swallows it back and takes a few deep breaths, then begins to make his way back to where Alfred sits at the computer console.

"Hey, Alf?" Dick says timidly.

Alfred hums an acknowledgement, attention still mainly focused on his task at hand, and that almost makes Dick give it up, decide to take his chances with the infection.

Instead he just keeps breathing and says, "I need...I might have an infection, and I was wondering if..."

Alfred turns to face him fully, already nodding. "Of course, Master Dick. They can survive a little while without me; why don't we get you checked out?"

Dick follows the older man over to the med bay and sits on the examination table he's prompted towards. Then Alfred looks at him expectantly, patiently waiting. Dick swallows; he'd like to just pull down the collar of his shirt, just let Alfred see that specific bite, maybe pretend that that's all there is, but he knows the collar isn't large enough to stretch that far, nor to really give Alfred a look at it.

So, Dick reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it up and off. He hears Alfred take a sharp breath and keeps his gaze fixed on a spot on the floor, not wanting to see the man's reaction.

"The one on my shoulder," Dick mumbles. "It doesn't look right."

Alfred doesn't say anything for a moment, then he steps closer, reaching out. But instead of going for the bite, he takes Dick's chin between his thumb and pointer finger to tilt his face up. The touch makes Dick twitch—far too reminiscent of all the times Roman has grabbed him in the exact same way—but he allows Alfred to lift his head, reluctantly meeting his eyes.

And he finds steadiness. There's sadness there, Dick can see it. Some anger in the pinch of his lips. But overall, it's just the steady reliability of Alfred. Alfred, who's been treating his wounds since he was nine years old, never with anything resembling judgement. There's no shame, or disgust.

"This does not define you," he says resolutely. "Do you understand me, Dick Grayson? This is not all you are."

Dick swallows thickly and nods. He doesn't believe him; but _fuck_ does he want to.

Alfred nods firmly in response and then turns his attention to the bite on his shoulder, examining it critically under the bright florescent lights of the med bay.

"Hm, yes," Alfred says. "Infection is beginning to set it. But not to worry; some antibiotic cream will clear this right up. You noticed it early, and it's very easy to take care of."

"Thanks, Alf," Dick says earnestly.

Alfred steps away, heading over to one of the cabinets and then returning with a small jar of cream. Hw swipes some onto a gloved finger and rubs it gently over the bite, just as focused as he is when setting a broken bone. It makes Dick smile.

"There," Alfred says when he's done. "Now, I want you to apply this twice a day for the next two days—when you wake up and before you go to bed—and then we can see how you're faring after that."

 _If I'm still here,_ Dick adds automatically in his head, and does his best to keep it from reaching his expression.

But going by the way Alfred grimaces down at the jar, he's thinking much the same thing.

* * *

Dick falls asleep in his chair at the computer at some point.

He only knows this because he feels himself wake up later. There's a blanket draped around him, and a hand on his shoulder gently shaking him awake. He blinks up into the darkness and sees Batman standing above him.

The mix of emotions _(comfortfear)_ brings Dick fully into awareness, and he straightens in his seat, rubbing his eyes.

"How long was I out?" Dick asks, watching Bruce pull down the cowl out of the corner of his eye.

"Not sure," Bruce says, "but we just got back. I thought you might be more comfortable sleeping in your own bed, rather than a chair."

Dick smiles slightly, looking everywhere except at Bruce's face. "Probably a good idea."

Glancing around the cave shows everyone getting cleaned up and changed, so Dick murmurs a quiet thanks to Bruce and then heads for the elevator. Now that Bruce has mentioned it, getting into bed sounds _amazing._

Everything feels like it hurts a hundred times worse than it did earlier as he makes his way through the Manor back to his bedroom, a grimace twisting his face. Fuck, he's looking forward to lying down and passing out. Maybe for a solid ten hours, that would be pretty spectacular.

And, of-fucking-course, there's someone waiting for him in his bedroom.

Dick sighs, cocking his head at the figure sitting on the window seat. "Is this gonna be a _thing_ with you?" he asks. "Coming in and out through _my_ bedroom? You know you have one of your own, right?"

"Yeah, but yours has the really nice climbing tree right outside," Jason returns, getting lazily to his feet. "Plus it's a little fun to freak you out. Just a bit."

Dick huffs a quiet laugh, fighting back a yawn. "What can I help you with, Jay?"

Jason hesitates, eyes flitting around, and then he clears his throat, straightening. "I wanted to—I know you're upset. About the whole...Slade thing."

Dick frowns. "Jason—"

"I just wanted to say that you don't have to be worried, okay?" Jason says. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders hunching awkwardly. "You don't have to worry about him interfering."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he told me he's not gonna help," Jason sighs, and rubs a hand over his forehead. He looks exhausted, run down. "He said...well, he said he's not getting involved. So you don't have to worry about that, okay?"

Dick blinks. Goes over the words in his head again, and then once more just to make sure. He walks carefully over to the bed and sits down. He keeps his expression perfectly relaxed, like what Jason just told him isn't...

Of course he wasn't going to help. Dick meant it when he told Jason that Slade doesn't do things out of the goodness of his heart, and being manipulated into something is a surefire way to get him to not do something. He meant it when he said that. And he meant it when he told Slade to tell Jason to stop.

But it's. Well. There's a difference between knowing what Slade is like and really knowing that he's...not going to do anything. That he's going to complete his job with Roman and then leave Dick to handle the mess he'd gotten himself into. There's no reason for Slade to get involved, Dick knows this. Slade's doing what Slade does best; looking out for himself.

And he feels childish for maybe the small part of him that didn't expect this. That thought maybe Slade would...

But, no. Slade isn't a hero, and after he'd seen what Dick's become—it's not like Dick is worth saving, after all. If only he could get his family to accept that, too.

"Right," Dick says.

"So I'm sorry I put you through that," Jason says stiffly. "I thought he'd—I'm just sorry."

"It's okay, Jase. Really." He offers his brother the best smile he can manage, and Jason grimaces in response. Dick changes the subject for both of their sakes. "Are you staying?"

Jason's grimace deepens. "I don't know if B and me being under the same roof for a prolonged period of time is for the best, Goldie. I know we've had a lot of fights over the years, but trust me this is..."

The Dick from before all this would let him go. Would make a joke and send a grin and demand a hug, and then let Jason go. He'd find a way to bring him back another day, and then another, and another. He'd work to bring his family together, but know their limits and how much they can take before needing space apart.

But now? Now Dick is physically and emotionally exhausted, and he really wants all of his family under one roof, at least for one night. He doesn't know how long he has until Roman calls for him. He needs his family, as long as he's allowed to have them.

"Please?" Dick asks.

Jason looks over at him, and whatever he sees in his expression makes resolve harden in his own, and he nods. "'Course, Dickie. I'll be in my tree-less room if you need me, I suppose."

Dick laughs softly, feeling some small amount of tension release as Jason heads away from the window and towards the door instead. "I'll see you in the morning, then?"

His little brother snorts. "Nah, I thought I'd try out this new invisibility trick I've been working on. You're gonna _love_ it."

Dick rolls his eyes, warmth filling him. "God, and people say _I_ have bad humor."

"Because you do," Jason tells him with a smirk, stepping out into the hall. "and you deserve to have it criticized." Then he swings the door shut, and Dick hears him walk towards his own bedroom, the door opening and closing, the younger boy settling in for the night.

Dick takes a slow, calming breath, lets it out, and then turns to do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Taeal huna, dami_ = Come here, my blood
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed, and see you next week!


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had kind of a rough week, so I don't think this chapter is up to my usual standards, but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway!

When Dick wakes up and is able to roll over in bed without hitting another human being, the first thing that goes through his head is, _Roman doesn't usually get up early on Saturdays._

That thought lingers for a little while, until Dick slowly comes back into awareness and _remembers._ He's not at the penthouse. He's at the Manor with his family. Roman sent him here for an unknown period of time. He could be called back at any moment.

But he's _at the Manor with his family._

Dick opens his eyes, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the window. The digital clock on the bedside table reads 8am, and Dick's thrilled by the idea of going back to sleep; at the penthouse he'd have to get up by this point during the week, and on weekends he'd _really_ want to stay awake, ready for whenever Roman woke up and demanded whatever it was that he wanted from him.

Now, however, Dick can sleep in all he likes. He doubts anyone is going to bother him.

But...he doesn't want to miss any time with his family. Maybe Roman is going to send for him in an hour; would he really want to have slept that hour away?

So he drags himself upright with a groan, rubbing at his eyes. He manages to get his legs over the side of the bed and then get his feet to carry his weight, making his way to the bathroom with a wince, his body seeing fit to remind him how everything hurts.

He splashes some water on his face and glances at himself, grimacing at the bruises on his face and neck. He turns away quickly, heading back out into his bedroom, and perches on the edge of the bed to sort through what he needs to do medication-wise.

He starts with the antibiotic cream Alfred gave him, gently spreading it over the infected bite, and then downs a pain pill dry. He pulls out the other antibiotics he's supposed to take, but tucks them into his pants pocket as he gets dressed since he apparently can't take them on an empty stomach.

Getting downstairs is a slow, painful affair, but at least he's beginning to get used to the specific _ways_ his body aches, which makes walking easier since he's learning how to hold himself to make it hurt less.

It's quiet downstairs, not a soul in sight, and Dick feels like cursing himself; he forgot the schedule of a vigilante. 8am on a Saturday is _definitely_ before any of them will be awake, unless they had a prior engagement. No, they won't be up for a few more hours, that's for sure.

"Damn," Dick sighs, rubbing a hand across his forehead.

He makes his way through the silent halls, wandering rather aimlessly. When he passes the door to the study that would take him to the batcave, he pauses, a longing filling him. A longing for the familiarity of that place, the sense of belonging, of _home._

But he remembers how— _alien_ he felt entering last night. How lacking. He doesn't want to feel that again.

Instead he goes for the media room, plopping down in the middle of one of the plush couches and flicking on the TV. He settles on some ridiculous cartoon he remembers watching when he was younger, pulling a throw blanket across his lap and snuggling in with a small smile; this is a thousand times more comfortable than Roman's living room.

He's two episodes in when someone else wanders into the room, squinting at him and still half asleep. Dick lifts up the blanket in silent offering and Tim climbs in beside him, cuddling against him like he did when he was younger.

Half an hour after that, Damian appears. He frowns at the pair of them for a long moment before he accepts the way Dick pats the spot beside him, striding across the room and settling carefully against Dick's free side. He holds himself rigidly, jaw clenched, and Dick pulls him gently closer, rubbing soothing circles on his arm until he relaxes.

Dick falls asleep at some point after that.

He dreams of Roman.

* * *

Saturday Breakfast is just as quiet an affair as Dick remembers, everyone exhausted from having surely worked themselves into the ground during the week.

Dick, Tim, and Damian are the last to arrive, walking in on Jason and Cass in the middle of a drawled discussion about whether or not Lady Macbeth was the real hero of the story. Dick is _pretty sure_ that that's a joke conversation, but frankly he wouldn't put it past either one of them to be serious.

"Dick," Bruce greets, looking over at him critically. "Did you sleep well?"

Dick shifts, trying not to look awkward, and sits down, using the excuse of getting settled to avoid looking at his father.

"Slept fine," he confirms, though he hadn't. He woke up many times through the night because of various aches and pains, and because of the _strangeness_ of not being in Roman's bedroom. At one point, he woke up and swore he could feel Roman on top of him, kissing his neck—

It hadn't been real. But it had made getting back to sleep challenging.

"My trick failed," Jason says, and Dick blinks at him, confused.

"What?"

Jason cocks an eyebrow at him, expression still relaxed with the remains of sleep, and gestures to himself with a lazy hand. It takes Dick a moment to remember what he means, and then it draws a smile from him.

"Drat," he says. "And here I was, expecting an invisible brother. For shame."

Jason huffs an amused breath and that's when Alfred enters the room, delivering plates of food, drawing all of their attention. Dick is the second to receive a plate after Bruce, but he doesn't move, waiting patiently until everyone has been served and then looking to Bruce.

Bruce's attention is on the paper and his cup of coffee, the man making no moves towards eating yet, and Dick grimaces. He's hungry, and he needs to take his antibiotics. If Bruce would just—

"You okay?" Jason asks from beside him. Dick looks over to find his younger brother watching him with a furrowed brow, fork halfway between his plate and face. Everyone, Dick sees, has begun to eat already, despite the fact that Bruce hasn't.

Dick has to fight the urge to vomit as he realizes what he's doing; it's a rule in the penthouse, that he has to wait for Roman. That's never been a rule at the Manor. He doesn't need Bruce to take a bite in order to eat. That's not how this works. He doesn't need _permission_ to eat.

He offers Jason a tight smile that's probably not even slightly reassuring, and picks up his own fork, spearing a sausage and taking a large bite from it. This isn't the penthouse. This isn't Roman. _Bruce_ isn't _Roman._

Much like at dinner the night before, Dick can feel everyone glancing at him, watching him from the corners of their eyes, and he tries to not let it get to him. Tries to instead focus on the fact that he's here with them, he's—home. He's home.

He doesn't know why that word suddenly feels so untrue.

In order to distract himself and everyone else, he asks Cass about her dance classes. He asks Tim about Cassie and Bart. He asks Jason how the library program he's running is going. He asks Damian—

"How'd the art show go, Dami?"

Damian freezes for just a moment before he continues reaching for his glass of juice like nothing's wrong. "It went fine," he sniffs. "Barely anyone at that school has any real talent."

"Master Damian's pieces had quite the crowd," Alfred says proudly. "They were beautiful." Damian's cheeks seem to redden slightly.

Dick smiles, swallowing back how heartbroken he is about missing it. "That's great, Dames! I knew you'd be the star of the show."

"It was nothing," Damian says tightly, not looking at him. "It was a childish affair. Our time was much better spent breaking up an arms deal than attending a trivial event."

Dick blinks at him. No, it wasn't childish. It was important. It was important to _Damian._ God, Dick wishes he could've been there more than anything. But Alfred was there, that's good. That's _excellent._ Dick was so afraid...But no, Jason promised. He made it happen. Damian wasn't alone. That's all Dick can ask for.

"Not childish," Cass corrects. "Very impressive."

Damian scowls at her, but if anything it seems like an embarrassed expression instead of hostile like he probably intends it to be.

The rest of the meal is quiet. When it's over, Jason offers to help Dick back to the media room so they can watch a movie, but Dick's stopped from agreeing when Bruce says, "Dick, I was hoping to speak to you."

Jason scowls, but Dick nods, looking at Bruce's nose to be able to give the impression of eye contact without actually having to meet his father's gaze.

"Sure, B. We can talk."

"Shout if you need anything," Jason mutters as he stands, following the others out of the room with one last threatening look at Bruce.

Silence falls between Dick and Bruce, Dick waiting and Bruce looking a million shades of awkward. Dick wishes they could skip all of whatever this is; he just wants to go watch movies with his family. He doesn't want to do...whatever this is.

"Alfred said you—let him look at your injuries."

Dick stares at Bruce's nose. He most certainly does not feel like a coward for avoiding his gaze. He most certainly does not feel weak.

"I did." _Did he tell you what he saw? Did he tell you about the bites? Did he make you even more disgusted with me than you probably already are?_

Bruce makes an acknowledging noise. "That's...good. I'm—glad."

Dick blinks at him, waiting. Bruce stares back at him, looking awkward and almost...helpless.

Dick suddenly has to fight the urge to laugh. Or to cry. Bruce isn't used to this, to Dick being so closed off. He's used to Dick reaching out, bridging the gap between them, extending an olive branch. He's used to Dick doing the heavy lifting. He has no clue how to do it himself, and he's still _waiting_ for Dick to react like he used to.

But Dick is too tired to handle someone else's emotional weight. He can barely carry his own these days.

"Well, if that's all..." Dick says, bracing his hands on the armrests in preparation of standing.

Bruce jerks slightly. "I—no, it's. Sit. Please."

Dick sighs and relaxes back into the chair. "What's up, Bruce?"

Bruce opens his mouth and closes it. Opens it again, drawing in a deep breath, then stares at Dick for two long seconds before once more closing his mouth. "Dick," he finally says, and then nothing else.

"Christ," Dick mutters. He rubs a hand over his face. This is almost pathetic. If he's going to confront Dick about the video, can he just _do_ it already? Dick's never known him to pull his punches, why can't he just lay it all out? It would save them both a lot of trouble. It...it might hurt, but at least it will be out in the open.

Bruce presses his lips into a thin line and squints away.

They sit there in silence for a few long moments before Bruce says, "Sal Maroni was killed early this morning."

Dick is absolutely positive that that wasn't what Bruce had been planning to say when he started this conversation, but it seems that's where they've ended up anyway.

His eyes go wide as the words hit him. Maroni is dead. Did Roman—? More than likely. Maroni was going after him, after Nicola's death. Tensions were getting higher and higher. Full-out war was on the precipice. And now this.

"Who else?" Dick asks, because Roman wouldn't just kill Sal, he's smarter than that.

Bruce looks at him. "Three of his lieutenants and six of his men."

So Roman left two lieutenants and Lorenzo Maroni alive, then. Why? To not upset the balance too much, maybe. Lorenzo Maroni is famously easier to get along with, and always even-tempered where Salvatore could be quick to anger. Maybe easier to settle a deal with. Better than trying to wipe out the entirety of the Maroni crime family; it wouldn't work, and would just lead to pockets of violence. This way, things can actually be settled.

Dick has no doubt that this is the reason Roman hired Slade.

"It was Roman," Dick says, a useless confirmation. Bruce probably already worked this out, and it's why he's telling Dick. "He hired Deathstroke to do it."

Ah, _that_ is new information to Bruce, going by the way he seems to zero in on it. Well, at least Dick is being useful.

"Do you know why he killed Nicola Maroni? That's what started this."

Nicola, with his too-kind eyes and his too-kind heart. Stupid, _stupid_ Nicola, for falling for Black Mask's plaything.

Dick shakes his head. If he opens his mouth it will all come out, if he opens his mouth he won't be able to stop himself from telling Bruce _everything_ that has happened, won't be able to stop from crying and shaking and begging his father to hold him and make everything better, and he—can't. He can't. He can't do any of that.

Bruce looks doubtful, but he doesn't press. He nods.

"Alright," he says. He glances around. "Why don't we—catch up to your siblings."

Dick nods back at him and, when Bruce offers him a hand, allows him to help him to his feet.

* * *

Dick manages to stay awake through the entirety of Mulan and then Hercules right after, but he falls asleep part of the way through Aladdin with his head pillowed in Cass' lap, his sister's hand stroking soothingly through his hair.

Getting beaten up takes a lot out of you, go figure. He wishes he wasn't so exhausted; he wants to take advantage of every moment with his family he can.

* * *

He wakes up to a room with two less people.

Bruce informs him that Tim has been called off on something important with his team and swears he'll be right back, and Damian had a _"task to complete"_ that pulled him away.

Dick just really hopes this isn't the start of Damian avoiding him. It would break his heart if his kid felt awkward enough to just forgo contact all together. There's no way Dick could ever let that stand.

So the five of them watch a new spy TV show Cass says that Stephanie loves, and Dick finds himself laughing as Jason critiques their firearm safety and Bruce corrects the various translations that happen and Alfred insults their portrayal of London and it's—it's just good. It's _good._

"Now they're just trying to look stupid," Jason says, exasperated, gesturing towards the convoluted way the spy on screen is currently reloading their weapon. "I mean, _come on,_ were they trained _blindfolded?"_

"Somehow in three months," Dick says, grinning and shaking his head, "I've managed to forget how passionate you get about fictional weapons. What a failing on my part."

Jason looks at him oddly. Dick cocks his head. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

"You said that before," Jason murmurs, brow furrowing in confusion. "You said _three months._ Dick, it's been longer than that. You know that, right?"

Dick waves a hand dismissively, trying to hold onto his good mood. He doesn't want to think about how long he's been with Roman. "Yeah, I know, I know. We're a little past three months by now."

The room is completely silent. Dick glances around and finds everyone staring at him, all with vaguely disturbed expressions in varying degrees. Instantly, anxiety grips Dick's heart, his chest suddenly feeling far too tight.

"What?" he asks. He glances at Bruce, the man's expression grave, and then back to Jason. "What's going on?"

Jason grimaces. "Dickie," he says gently. "You've been with Sionis for almost four months."

Dick blinks. "No," he says. "No, it hasn't been that long."

"Today is December thirteenth, Master Dick," Alfred says, something very sad in his eyes. "You went with him on August nineteenth."

Dick stares at him, looking for some sign of a bad joke, but Alfred's expression doesn't change. Dick looks back to Jason, but he's much the same. And Bruce. And Cass.

Dick laughs and pushes to his feet. "No. You're wrong, it hasn't been—it hasn't been _four months._ I'm—no, it's barely three months, I haven't—no, I haven't been there for four months."

"Breathe," Bruce says, standing up as well, his face lined with concern. "It's alright, just take a few deep breaths. We'll figure this out, it's alright."

"It's not alright!" Dick snaps. "It's—"

He turns away from them all, squeezing his eyes shut. He cards his hands through his hair and clenches at the strands, trying to regulate his breathing, trying to calm down. He wishes this wasn't happening in front of them, wishes he could leave to freak out on his own, but he knows they'd just follow.

How could he have lost track of time? How could he not have known that it's been _four months?_ He knows the last few weeks _(weeks, or something longer?)_ have had a lot shit going on that made him kind of out of it, and that he's been going out less so that makes the days kind of blend together, but he thought he'd been on top of it. He thought he'd known _when_ it was.

But would it...really have mattered? It's not like much of these three—these _four_ months have in any way been under his control. Every day belongs to Roman, everything he does is at the behest of Roman. Does it matter if Dick keeps track of how _long_ Roman's been in control? Does that actually have any impact?

Maybe it would even be easier if Dick just checked out all together.

Going where Roman tells him to, doing what Roman wants him to. It's not like anything changes. What does it matter if he knows it's been sixteen weeks versus twelve? What does it matter if he thought there were two days between events instead of four? Everything will still be the same. Roman will still fuck him and hurt him and _own_ him. What are four months versus the rest of his life?

"Okay," Dick says, voice trembling, heart still too fast in his chest. He forces his fingers to relax, hands dropping from his head. "Okay, I need to...it's...okay. Four months."

It's December thirteenth. He missed Thanksgiving. Christmas is in less than two weeks. He's going to spend _Christmas_ with Roman. Three months after that he'll spend his _birthday_ with Roman. He'll miss Bruce's birthday in April. Tim's in July. Damian's and Jason's birthdays in August. Then wash, rinse, repeat. For the rest of his life, or at least until Roman gets bored of him.

And, to be honest, if Roman ever gets bored of him Dick can't see this ending any other way than with the man killing him. He'd never just let Dick go, that's for sure. So no matter what happens—he really is spending the rest of his life with Roman.

He accepted that this was permanent. He made his peace with it, and is still trying to get his family to do the same. But seeing the lost time, seeing how he's already missed one holiday and is going to miss so many more—it's a lot to take in.

"I need to take my medication," Dick says, as evenly as he can manage.

"I can—"

"No, thank you," Dick cuts his brother off. "I can do it myself."

Someone steps up beside him, and Dick glances out of the corner of his eye to see Cass. She lifts a hand, gently touching Dick's elbow, expression perfectly calm.

"Come on," she says quietly. "I'll help."

Dick purses his lips and just nods, allowing her to link her arm through his and take some of his weight as they make their way towards the door.

* * *

He counts bruises in the bathroom.

Stripped down naked and standing in front of the mirror, he examines his body for all the marks Roman has left on him. He tries to equate the time he remembers versus what all the bruises and wounds say. He tries to convince himself that he isn't going crazy.

He can only stomach this exercise for ten minutes before he throws up in the toilet and flicks on the shower, as hot as it can go. He can't really keep himself standing for long so it's a very, _very_ brief shower, which is probably for the best, considering how red his skin has already turned in such a short period of time.

He forces himself out, drying off and then hobbling back into his bedroom. Redressing is a slow, arduous affair, and he resents Roman's obsessions with button-downs for the millionth time as he works on pulling on the complicated shirt one-handed.

A sharp gasp from the doorway has him freezing, his head snapping up.

There Damian stands, one hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide as he stares at Dick.

Or, more accurately, at Dick's chest.

Dick can't move, horror freezing him, unable to turn away and stop Damian from continuing to look at the wounds Roman left on his body. The bites, the brand. The violent claims. The obvious ones. If there was one person, _one person,_ Dick would never want to see any of this—

"Dami," Dick says, voice strangled.

Damian's wide eyes snap up to meet his own. The boy says nothing. His breaths are starting to come in as heaves.

"Dami, you have to calm down," Dick manages to get out. He still can't move. Damian's seen. He never wanted—he would give _anything—_

"You—what is this?" Damian demands, voice shaking. His eyes dart back down to Dick's chest, then up again, and back once more. Like he knows he should hold eye contact but can't stop looking at the marks.

Dick doesn't know how to answer that question. _This is Roman's sign of ownership, Damian. I'm not my own person anymore. I'm Black Mask's whore._

"It's...Dames—"

"You—no!" Damian shouts. He looks like he's shaking. His eyes are still wide. "Snap out of it, Richard! This is not you! You are not this—this weak!"

It's like a knife to Dick's heart. "Damian—"

"No!" Damian shouts again. "You are letting him—he's—he is—" The boy takes a deep, shaking breath. Dick has no idea what to say. "You are not this _weak thing_ who lets himself be abused! You are my Batman! And Batman would never allow himself to be taken in by a _thug_ such as Black Mask! He is an _ant,_ and you are supposed to be better than this!"

Dick can feel tears in his eyes. He knows Damian's just upset. He knows the boy doesn't truly understand. He knows he's afraid and lashing out.

But that doesn't stop it from hitting so hard.

"Snap out of it!" Damian snaps. "Have you fallen so far that you allow yourself to be treated this way? It isn't worth it! I'm not—" He swallows, jaw clenching. "You must stop this. You _must._ You can't be this weak, you just can't. You can't _let_ that animal do this to you anymore! I won't stand for someone in this family acting like this!"

Let. Allow. Like Dick is choosing any of what's happening to him. Likes he _wants_ what Roman is doing. Like he could _ever—_

Dick turns away, closing his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths and ignores the way they hitch. He starts working on the buttons of his shirt.

"Is there something you needed, Damian?" he asks, as levelly as he can.

There's a moment of silence. A wet sniffle.

Then Damian sneers, _"Weak,"_ and footsteps stride away, his bedroom door slamming shut behind the boy. Dick keeps breathing.

He stands there for at least ten minutes, not moving. His ankle is killing him, his entire body upset at having been upright for this long. But he can't move. He can barely keep himself from collapsing.

A phone rings nearby.

Dick blinks. He turns his head, following the sound, and his eyes land on the bag he brought with him to the Manor from the penthouse. He stares at it for a long moment. It doesn't stop ringing. He makes his way over to it.

In one of the small side pockets is, apparently, a cellphone. _His_ cellphone, in fact. Something he hasn't seen in a very long time. He...doesn't remember the last time, actually. But it's his, right in his hand, and ringing.

He answers the call, lifts it to his ear. His heart pounds in his chest. "Hello?"

 _"Caleb will be there in ten minutes,"_ Roman says, voice smooth. Dick feels like crying. _"You will be ready to go when he arrives. Correct?"_

"Correct," Dick says hoarsely.

 _"Good,"_ Roman says. _"See you soon, sweetheart."_ A dial tone.

Dick puts the phone back down. Takes a few deep breaths.

Then he turns for the door.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awesome news, my dudes. I got into my new undergrad program!! So, _so_ excited 😁
> 
> Got so much done this week, too. Wrote out a bunch of future scenes for this fic, posted a couple new stories, made progress on many more. I'm thriving, my dudes. Gotta love a turn around from a bad week.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Dick is very calm as he makes his way downstairs.

He doesn't bother grabbing any of the items he brought with him; he has more than enough clothes waiting for him back at the penthouse, and he just doesn't have it in him to care about any of the medication at the moment. What's a little physical pain, really, when compared to everything else?

He doesn't pass anyone along the way, and a large part of him is tempted to not seek them out, to just go to the door and wait outside for Caleb to arrive, then leave without a word. After everything Damian said—Dick doesn't want to face the rest of them. He's going back to Roman. He's allowing himself to be called for like a dog. He doesn't want to see the looks on their faces.

He doesn't want to have to deal with them asking him not to go.

Or, even worse, them wishing him well.

But he can't be that cruel, can't just vanish without so much as a goodbye. That's what he did last time, snuck out his bedroom window and ran right back to Roman. Left his family worried and wondering for six weeks. Given, this time they'll know where and why he went, but it still feels wrong.

He finds Alfred and Tim in the dining room, drinking from teacups. Dick's timer is ticking down; he doesn't have time to track everyone down, and he doesn't want to test Roman's patience by not being outside when Caleb arrives. He doesn't know what mood he's going to find Roman in, and he'd rather not tempt fate. So saying goodbye to just Alfred and Tim will have to do.

"Guys," Dick says softly, and both of them turn to look at him. He avoids looking at them head-on; he doesn't want to see their expressions. "I have to go."

He hears one of them suck in a sharp breath, and then two chairs push out, footsteps approaching him. Tim wraps his arms carefully around Dick's middle, pulling him into a hug, and Dick hugs back, more tightly.

"I'll miss you," Tim says, voice muffled against Dick's shirt.

Dick blinks back the urge to cry. "I'll miss you too, kiddo. So, _so_ much." He feels a hand settle on his shoulder, Alfred squeezing gently.

Pulling away from them is one of the most challenging things Dick has ever had to do. He doesn't want to go, doesn't want to leave. He wants to stay with Tim's arms wrapped around him and Alfred's hand comfortingly resting on his shoulder. He wants to spar with Cass and watch movies with Jason and listen to—to Damian talk about his latest hyperfixation. He wants Bruce to tell him everything is going to be okay.

But he can't have any of that.

They release him without resistance, which he's thankful for. Tim loops his arm immediately through Dick's, however, and braces to allow Dick to lean on him as they make their way to the door.

By the time they arrive and step outside, a car is slowly pulling up the drive, pulling to a stop in front of the Manor. Caleb steps out of the driver's side and moves to the back, opening the door for Dick and then looking at him expectantly.

"Alfred would you—I saw Damian, just before Roman called," Dick says. "He was...upset. He—would you check on him for me?"

"Of course, Master Dick," Alfred says without hesitation. He knows he can count on Alfred; Damian might not want anything to do with Dick now, but Alfred will be able to get close to the boy. He'll help.

"Thank you," Dick says quietly. He pulls his arm gently from Tim's, the boy's grip tightening for just a moment before letting go, allowing Dick to step away and slowly cross the distance to the car. He slides inside with a grimace, but the heater inside the car is pleasant after the chill of the outside.

Caleb shuts the door behind him and moves back to the driver's side, getting in the car himself and then switching them back into drive. Dick forces himself to not look back, to not watch the Manor get smaller and smaller behind him, his family and his home once again ripped away from him.

Despite himself, Dick feels tears come to his eyes, and he can't stop them from spilling down his cheeks. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against the cold window, trying to stifle his hitched breaths so that Caleb doesn't hear him. It's hard, though. Everything wants to come pouring out of him.

 _Batman would never allow himself to be taken in by a_ thug _such as Black Mask! He is an_ ant, _and you are supposed to be better than this!_

Bruce would never find himself in a position like this. Bruce would never have allowed Roman to do this to him, would never have allowed a criminal to get so deeply woven into his mind that even being miles and miles away couldn't stop his influence. Bruce would never be so—so _weak,_ like Damian said. Bruce would never find himself bowing to the will of a sadist, resigned to that being his life for as long as he lives.

What would Roman do, Dick wonders, if Dick just...took himself out of the equation. Would he consider it distasteful, maybe a disappointment, and then move on? Would he be sadistically pleased that he managed to push Dick that far? Would he be angry enough to take it out on his family, release their identities?

Dick can't risk that last option coming true. Right now Dick's compliance keeps his family safe; he can't risk that Roman would take drastic action in the event of Dick dying. He'd be taking away Roman's control over him, after all. And Roman sure hates being out of control.

There's some small amount of pleasure in that idea, in the idea of ripping Roman's control over the situation out of his hands in such a permanent manner.

But Roman is not one to let a slight go easily. Dick can't risk the man punishing his family for his actions.

Which means he's going to stay the course. Keep on keeping on. Let himself be abused. Allow Roman to treat him however he likes. For however long Roman decides to have him.

Dick can admit to being a romantic. He's not ashamed to say that when he was younger, he dreamed of finding his true love and riding off into the sunset with them. Of course the _"true love"_ part changed as he got older, as he realized that there is no single "true love", but the desire for a lifelong partner never did. He dreamed of finding that with someone.

Barbara and Kori—he could've seen himself spending the rest of his life with either of them, if things had been a little different. They could've lived long, happy lives together. Exciting lives, filled with action and love. Dick couldn't imagine a better existence than something like that.

He never in his wildest of nightmares would've imagined ending up with Roman Sionis. But he supposes he made his bed, and now he has to lie in it.

He arrives back at the penthouse in a daze. In the elevator, his battered, exhausted face stares back at him, and he rubs at his eyes, trying to hide the evidence of the fact that he cried the whole way back.

It's probably pointless; Roman's very observant, he's bound to notice. Dick's just too exhausted to deal with any goading right now.

Andy is waiting for them when he and Caleb exit the elevator, and he offers the crutch in his hand without a word. Dick takes it gratefully, tucking it under his arm and leaning heavily against it. His entire body is protesting how long he's been upright, how long it's been since he took something for the pain, how long he's been walking around like he doesn't have a busted ankle, ribs, and trachea which makes getting even breaths hard.

While Dick doesn't particularly care about any of that at the moment—who knows, maybe he deserves the pain—he can't deny that the crutch provides some relief.

"He's in the living room," Andy informs him. "The doc's here, too. Boss said you'll probably need him."

Dick grimaces and nods, muttering a quiet word of thanks and then turning away from the pair of them, heading towards the living room.

He wishes he could say it feels odd to be back, after staying in the Manor. He wishes it wasn't the other way around.

The TV is on when Dick arrives, playing a basketball game on low volume. Dick can just make out the announcer's rapid-fire analysis of the current state of the game.

Roman is sitting on the couch facing the TV, one of his ankles propped up on his other knee, one arm stretched out over the back of the couch. There's a tablet balanced in his lap, and with his other hand he's writing on it with a stylus. But none of that is what has Dick freezing in the doorway.

Roman is in a light blue t-shirt and gray sweatpants. There are glasses perched low on his nose. His hair is mussed like bedhead.

Dick's never seen him look so...regular. Roman is always immaculately put together, always sharp suits and styled hair. But right now, in casual clothes and with—with freaking _glasses,_ he looks like some normal company worker off-duty, or a professor on the weekend. The furrow in his brow seems so much more gentle than threatening here, the tilt of his head casually thoughtful rather than accusatory.

Dick doesn't know what to make of it. He can't stop staring. Roman isn't supposed to be so— _human._

Dick doesn't spot Carson until the man is standing up, having been too distracted by the drastic change in Roman. Carson offers him a polite smile. "Dick, welcome back. Why don't you sit?"

Roman looks up, then, scanning Dick with a critical eye, but some of the impact he normally has is completely lost coming from this strange new him. Dick sees a bruise on the temple that had been tilted away from him before, and it makes him curious about who managed to get close enough to him to land a hit.

Dick tears his eyes away, following Carson's instruction and entering the room to sit down on one of the couches. Carson immediately moves to sit beside him, and though Dick can feel Roman's eyes on him, he doesn't look at him again.

Carson runs through a few customary questions about his pain level and if he kept to the medication schedule, and then asks him to remove his shirt so he can examine him.

When the examination is complete, Dick grimaces, knowing he has to say something. "I, um, am going to need new fills for all the meds. I...didn't bring them back with me."

Carson raises his eyebrows but doesn't ask why. "Alright, I'll get you some by tomorrow morning."

"Thanks," Dick says quietly, and then Carson stands to go, calling out a goodbye to Roman before departing.

Dick doesn't move, staring out the large windows that dominate the wall opposite him. Out of the corner of his eye he can see where Roman sits, the man still looking at him.

After a long moment, Romans observes, "You've been crying."

Dick's lips pinch. He gives a small nod.

He hears Roman sigh. "Richard. Come here."

Dick takes a few deep breaths, ignoring the way his chest and trachea complain, and heaves himself to his feet with a small grunt, crossing the distance to sit on the couch with Roman. The man takes his face in his hand and tilts it up, forcing Dick to look at him. Roman looks between his eyes curiously, the slightest furrow between his brows, and his thumb swipes lightly across Dick's cheek right below his eye.

"Why have you been crying?" Roman asks, sounding genuinely curious about the answer. Dick has to fight the urge to tense; Roman being _curious_ about things doesn't tend to end well, and how soft he seems right now is unfamiliar, throwing Dick off-balance.

There are a few answers to Roman's question. Damian thinks he's weak. Bruce is ashamed of him. Dick wouldn't mind dying except he's afraid for his family. He's going to spend the rest of his life as a toy. He's in pain. He's tired.

A large part of him wonders if it wouldn't just be better to completely give in and let whatever happens, happen. If his only use in life is serving Roman then why not serve well? Why put himself in positions for punishments? Why not lean into the current and let it take him? He's so _tired_ of swimming against something inevitable.

Against his will, Dick feels tears welling up again. He doesn't want to cry in front of Roman; the man always jumps on weaknesses like a shark smelling blood in the water. Dick is too shattered right now to resist it.

"Oh, sweetheart," Roman says, tilting his head. "Didn't you have a good time with your family?"

Dick thinks of Jason shouting in his bedroom about how he can't just give up. Thinks of how wrong it felt to be in the batcave, like he didn't belong there anymore. The way the batsuit made him remember the man he got killed. How odd it felt to sleep without Roman beside him. The way Bruce kept looking at him. The realization that he's been here so much longer than he originally thought. And Damian's words.

"I, um," Dick tries, but the tears won't stop, he can't make it stop, and then his body is shaking as he sobs, and his vision is blurring, and he can't breathe—

Roman pulls him close, one hand stroking through his hair, other arm wrapping around him. And Dick sobs against his chest, eyes screwed shut, his uninjured hand reaching up to grip at his shirt.

Roman doesn't say a word, just holds him and strokes his hair. Eventually Dick's sobs begin to taper off, crying weakly until there's nothing left to come out of him, and he stays collapsed against Roman's chest, exhausted and drained.

Roman keeps them like that for a little while, still silent, and then dryly says, "So I take it it wasn't an overly pleasant visit."

"I don't belong there anymore," Dick whispers hoarsely.

For half a second, Roman's hand stills in Dick's hair before stroking again, so quickly that Dick almost thinks he imagines the odd moment. Roman hums, a sound Dick can feel vibrate through him. "That's right, sweetheart. You belong here with me, don't you?"

Dick closes his eyes again. This is what he's good for now. "Yeah."

"I'm proud of you, sweetheart," Roman says, and Dick can hear the smile in his voice. "Finally realized the bats are better off without my little whore?"

Dick bites his lip and feels the skin break. He swipes his tongue over it, his own blood hitting his taste buds. "Yes, Daddy."

Roman tilts Dick's head up slightly, just enough to press his lips to Dick's forehead in a gentle kiss that feels like a reward. 

"That's right," the man murmurs. "And now they know it, too, don't they? They saw you and now they know what you really are."

The look on Damian's face comes into Dick's mind. The way he spat _weak_ at him. The brand that the boy now knows about, and Bruce and Alfred. Roman's claim there for all to see.

Dick nods against Roman's chest. His breath hitches, and he fights back the want to cry again. He doesn't have anything left in him.

"Aw, sweetheart, it's okay if they don't love you anymore; I'll always take care of you."

Dick keens weakly, because he's right, isn't he? Even if his family doesn't realize it yet, he's right. Bruce has already shown twice before moments where he realized Dick wasn't worth being loved. He'll come to that conclusion again soon, if he hasn't already. If seeing Dick come while being fucked by a man dressed like Batman didn't already tell Bruce that he's a lost cause.

"Okay," Dick says hoarsely. "Okay."

Roman's hand slides out of his hair and cups his cheek instead, tilting his face up. Dick opens his eyes and sees Roman's face very close to his, the older man smiling at him. He looks pleased, extremely so. "Very good, Richard."

"I'm sorry," Dick whimpers.

Roman's brow furrows just a tad. "For what?"

"I—I don't know, I'm just—I'm so—I—"

Roman shushes him. "I know, I know, it's alright. We always end up here, don't we? You, unwanted and unloved and all alone. And me, offering you everything you need."

Somewhere in Dick's brain, he knows that's wrong. He knows that Roman never did anything for him out of the goodness of his heart, that the way the man is framing it right now is in no way the whole story.

But Dick just wants to feel better. He wants someone to love him and take care of him and _want_ him. He wants to be good, wants someone to be happy with him. And if Roman is the rest of his life...

"Yes," Dick whispers.

Roman smiles. "That's right. You want to make us both feel good, baby? You know what will make you feel better."

Dick blinks up at him, swallows, and then slides off the couch and to his knees.

Roman's smile grows. He swipes his hand through Dick's hair and then gently squeezes the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. Dick moves forward between his spread thighs, glancing briefly up at Roman and seeing that pleased smile still curving the man's lips. He's removed his glasses.

Dick leans in without prompting, mouthing at Roman's cock through the sweatpants. Roman makes a pleased noise above him, nails scraping lightly over the nape of Dick's neck.

Maybe this _will_ make him feel better. He just has to please Roman, and everything will be okay. After Jason's death Roman took care of him, always takes care of him when no one else will. He just has to be good. He just has to make Roman feel good. That's all that matters now.

"Tell me what to do," Dick says, almost begging, nuzzling his face against Roman's thigh. "Just—please, Daddy—"

"I've got you, baby," Roman coos. "I've got you, now and forever."

* * *

By the time Tim and Alfred arrive in the living room, people are already yelling.

Tim stands there for a moment, blinking in surprise and trying to take in the scene. Jason and Damian are standing off, both of them snarling and looking pissed as hell. Though Damian, Tim notes, has his shoulders hunched in a defensive, almost... _guilty_ way. Cass is standing somewhat between them, her hand pressed to Jason's chest but her frown directed at Damian. Bruce is leaning against the back of one of the couches, rubbing a hand over his face.

"What is the meaning of this?" Alfred demands.

Cass and Bruce look over, but neither Jason nor Damian move.

"The meaning of this," Jason snarls, "is that the little _brat_ can't help but mess shit up!"

Damian bares his teeth. "Just because I am the only one willing to voice what needed to be said—"

 _"What needed to be said?"_ Jason explodes, and Cass' hand presses more firmly against his chest as he jerks forward. Tim really doesn't think Jason would just attack Damian—he's got a pretty good control on the Pit rage these days—but with how furious he looks, Tim can agree with Cass' decision to be in the middle. Just in case.

"What happened?" Tim asks.

"This shithead blamed Dick for all the shit Sionis is putting him through!"

Tim blinks. Damian stiffens.

"I did not _blame_ him!" Damian argues. "I simply informed him of the fact that his mission is ridiculous and he is supposed to be strong enough to not be in this situation!"

"Jesus Christ," Tim breathes. "Holy shit, you— _dammit,_ Damian!"

"How about we all take a breath," Alfred says firmly. He enters the room, stepping up to Damian and placing a hand on his shoulder. The boy cuts a glare at him, but doesn't try to pull away. "Master Damian, please explain what _exactly_ happened when you so delicately informed Master Dick of this."

Damian's expression twists, and he jerks away from Alfred, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"We've already heard the story, Alf," Jason says, aggrieved, "and trust me, it's as bad as it sounds."

"Nevertheless," Alfred replies easily. "Master Damian?"

"I went to give Grayson something," Damian grits out, not looking at any of them. "When I entered his room he had his shirt off, and I saw these—" his lips curl, _"—marks_ on his chest. It informed me of something I believe has been kept a secret from me."

He glares at them all, and it dawns on Tim that whatever Damian saw, it told Damian that Black Mask is raping Dick. And Damian's reaction was to tell Dick...that he should be stronger. _Dammit, Damian._

"I was—incredulous that someone who has been Batman would be in a position such as this. He is—he _is_ stronger than this. And because of me—because of _us_ —he is in a situation where a two-bit criminal is abusing him! It's not worth it! None of it is!"

"You're leaving something out," Jason says coldly. "Don't forget the real kicker, kid, if you're gonna tell the story. What did you call Dick?"

Damian hesitates for a single moment, and then he lifts his chin, jaw clenched, and says, "I called him weak." 

Tim feels like he can't breathe for a moment. Dick's mental state is so very fragile, he was so _clearly_ reaching a breaking point, and then Damian said he should be stronger. Said that he's _weak._ And now Dick is gone; they can't rectify this. Dick's gone back to Black Mask after the kid who's basically _his kid_ victim-blamed him. And Sionis is a master manipulator—it won't take much at all to turn that to his favor.

"Brother of the year, everyone," Jason mutters. He shakes his head and turns for the door. "Whatever, I'm done with this shit. I'm gonna take Dick out for an hour, get him away from all this fucking _bullshit."_

Tim draws in a slow breath. "You can't. He's gone."

Jason stares at him. Everyone stares at him. Bruce stands up straight.

"What do you mean, _he's gone?"_

"I mean that Black Mask sent someone to pick him up, and he just left. He didn't have time to track everybody down," Tim explains. His eyes land on Damian. "He asked us to check on _you,_ said you were upset when he last saw you. You called him weak for surviving all the stuff Sionis is doing to him, and Dick still wanted to make sure _you_ were okay."

Damian stares at him with wide eyes.

"He does everything for you," Jason says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Always, _always_ bends over backwards to take care of you. Even risked _calling me_ to make sure someone was gonna attend your fucking art show."

Damian flinches. "He—what?"

"None of us knew," Cass murmurs, reaching out and taking Damian's hand. He's too frozen to stop her. "You didn't tell. Dick couldn't go, didn't want you to be alone."

"He should stop," Damian snaps. "He needs to look after himself. I just wanted to make him see that! He should stop trying to _protect me_ and take care of himself!

"And all of you—all of you having been working to _protect me,_ taking me from my home, not revealing what Black Mask has truly been doing to Richard; why aren't you protecting _him?_ You are doing _nothing_ for him and trying to make up for it by doing everything for me, but it isn't right! Have I not proven I can handle myself? Your focus should be on him!"

"Are we really having this conversation again?" Jason snaps right back. "We aren't just sitting on our asses, Damian! Just because you're not _satisfied_ doesn't mean we've been idle!"

"How would I know?" Damian shouts. "No one tells me anything! You ship me off to the penthouse and keep me away from Father during patrol, you make me go to school each day without a word, and you tell me _nothing."_

"Boohoo, you've been out of the loop," Jason snorts.

"Jason, that's enough," Bruce says coolly.

"No, it's not," Jason returns. "I get we're all _stressed,_ but that's no excuse for what he said to Dick. Fuck, and now he's gone. Sionis is gonna—" He cuts himself off, running an agitated hand through his hair. _"Shit."_

"Why don't we all sit down," Alfred says evenly, but Tim thinks he can see the man's breath shudder just a little. "Now is not the time to turn on one another. There is _one_ enemy at hand, let's not forget."

Jason grimaces at him. "I just—I've seen so many people get blamed for the shit that happens to them," he says helplessly. "Dick's going through hell. And Damian saying that stuff to him..." He shakes his head. "Dammit."

"Sit, my boy," Alfred says gently. "Let me get everyone a cup of tea."

Jason sits down heavily, dropping his head into his hands. Tim walks over hesitantly and sits beside him.

"We're gonna get him out," Tim says. "We are, Jay."

Jason looks over at him helplessly. "I don't know anymore, Timbo. I just...I just don't know how."

* * *

Dick is quiet during dinner.

He feels numb, depressed in the literal sense of the word, pushed down until he's small and fragile and empty.

He's replaying it over and over again in his head, the way he sank to his knees without being told, how he begged Roman to show him the way, how desperately he worked his mouth and hands around Roman's cock, soaking in the praise that dripped from his poisonous lips. How he let Roman come down his throat and then cleaned his cock with his tongue. How he came with Roman's hand around his throat, coming apart with just a few kind words.

He hasn't really said much since that happened. Not in the shower, where they both cleaned off and Roman pinned him against the wall, keeping him upright by the press of his body, and fucked into him slow and hard and then fit his mouth over the bite on Dick's shoulder as he came, eyes dark and hooded.

Roman seems happy enough. Dick can feel him look over at him from time to time, and Dick just eats his food _(after_ Roman has started) and sits quietly and tries to not think too much.

"I have something for you," Roman says when dinner is over, and Dick looks at him curiously, a little wary. Rarely are Roman's _gifts_ things that turn out well for Dick.

But nevertheless he follows Roman when the man stands, and they end up at the man's office. Roman enters without a word, heading over to his desk, but Dick hesitates in the doorway for a moment, eyes drifting over to the place Roman pinned him to the wall the other night. He forces himself to move, shaking off the old anxiety and stepping into the room.

Roman glances back at him and then waves a hand, beckoning him closer. Dick steps up beside him where Roman now stands in front of his desk, a thin box held in his hands. He offers it to Dick and Dick takes it, brow furrowing. The box is secured closed with two latches, so Dick pops them open and then lifts the lid.

He blinks down at the object, trying to understand the fact that Roman is giving him...a gun.

"Pick it up."

Dick glances up at Roman warily. The man's looking at him with a placid, expectant expression, and Dick does as he's told, setting the box down on the desk and lifting the gun. He automatically checks that the safety is on, the magazine is full and no bullet in the chamber. It's a SIG P226; high quality and very expensive.

"Why are you giving me a gun?" Dick asks quietly.

Roman puts his hands on Dick's hips and pulls him in, turning him around so that his back is pressed up against Roman's chest. Roman's hands slide down his arms, settling around his hands and moving Dick's fingers to wrap more securely around the gun. Dick allows his arms to be lifted, Roman shifting their stance to ready-to-fire.

"You're quite the marksman," Roman murmurs against the shell of Dick's ear. "Watching you shoot was lovely. And it feels like a _waste,_ to only have that skill used at a gun range. Think about all the possibilities."

Dick's heart pounds in his chest. "What are you...?"

"We're not there yet," Roman says, breath washing across the side of Dick's face. "Not yet. But soon, I think. How'd you like to do some work for me, baby?"

"I—Roman," Dick says, voice strangled. _Work_ for him? Work that requires the use of a _gun?_ No, no Dick can't do that. He _can't._

"Like I said, we're not there yet." Roman presses a kiss to Dick's temple. "But I think we're close."

Roman draws away then, stepping back and grabbing something else from his desk. Dick turns around to see, his hands still wrapped around the gun, and his eyes land on the collar in Roman's hands. _His_ collar.

"Technically, Carson advised against putting any pressure on your neck," Roman informs him, and reaches out to lightly brush his thumb across the skin of Dick's neck. For a moment, Roman's eyes darken, lips pressing into a thin line, before his expression smooths again. "But how could I resist?"

Dick holds still as Roman reaches out, allowing the man to once more secure the black leather around his neck. It settles in place heavily, and aches slightly at it presses on his injuries. But that's alright. It's fine. He was going to have to put it back on eventually.

"There," Roman breathes. He runs his fingers over the collar and then pulls Dick in, kissing him deeply. Dick opens his mouth pliantly, letting Roman take what he wants. The gun is still clutched in his hands. He's trying not to think about what Roman's going to want him to do with it.

Roman pushes him backward, forcing him to sit on the desk and then lie back. Roman steps between his legs, running his hands up Dick's thighs and palming briefly at his crotch before undoing his pants. He pulls them and his underwear down, Dick lifting his hips to help, and then removes them completely, actually being careful around Dick's busted ankle.

Next he undoes the buttons of Dick's shirt, pushing it open, and then stares down at Dick's chest. Dick can see his eyes linger on each bite, each bruise, with an unreadable look on his face, before settling on the brand. His lips twitch up with pleasure.

"All mine," he murmurs. "You're all mine."

"Yours," Dick agrees, closing his eyes.

Roman inserts two fingers into him, and it doesn't hurt too much, Dick still a little wet from earlier. He pumps them in and out, curling them deliberately over Dick's prostate and drawing a moan out of him, toes curling.

He hears Roman's belt clink—back in a full suit after the shower, like nothing had ever been different—and then feels his cockhead pushing at his entrance. Dick can admit that Roman's refractory period is impressive for a man of his age; getting it up three times within two hours is certainly not bad.

Dick rocks back and forth on the desk as Roman fucks into him. He lifts his legs, wrapping them around Roman's waist and pulling him closer. He can be good. He can make Roman feel good.

Roman grunts and snaps his hips forward, and then suddenly he's drawing back, dislodging himself from Dick's grip. Dick opens his eyes, confused since he didn't feel Roman come, and sure enough sees Roman still hard, cock bobbing up in the air.

"Come on," Roman says, leisurely stroking himself. "I'd like to spread you out on the bed."

Dick pulls himself into an upright position, grimacing as his body protests all the sudden movements. He looks down at his pants on the floor and briefly considers putting them back on, but honestly what would be the point? Sure, they might pass some guards on the way, but does it matter? It's not like a lot of them haven't already seen him naked or at least partially clothed at one time or another. Probably will many more times in the future. Might as well just go to the bedroom with his open shirt and nothing else.

He pauses to put the gun back in its box and latch it closed, bringing it with him for lack of any better option.

Roman leads him to the bedroom and instructs him to get on the bed while he moves over to his closet. Dick does as he's told, shedding his shirt and putting the box on the bedside table as he does it.

Roman returns soon enough, holding a leash in his hand. Dick bites his tongue against the protest that wants to come out—what he wants here doesn't matter—allowing Roman to secure it to his collar. Roman tugs lightly and Dick moves with it, shuffling forward to be in the center of the bed where Roman pulls him.

The man crawls over him and slots their mouths together, biting at his lips and sliding his tongue along his teeth in a way that feels oddly...claiming, like Roman is exploring something that belongs to him.

Well, Dick reminds himself. He _is_ exploring something that belongs to him.

"Turn over," Roman says when he breaks the kiss, drawing back just enough to give Dick space to move onto his stomach. He pulls Dick's hips up but presses a hand between his shoulder blades to keep his face against the bed. Roman's hand draws away but Dick doesn't move, staying where he was put. Roman squeezes his ass, making a pleased noise, and then he's pushing back inside of Dick in one smooth thrust.

Dick groans as Roman times it with a yank on the leash; on a good day such a thing could draw some pain out of him, his breathing getting cut off and Roman's grip tight enough to make the collar dig into Dick's skin. But now it's a thousand times worse with Dick's injury.

His strained breaths wheeze in and out of him as Roman sets a punishing pace, releasing and tugging on the leash at random intervals that make it very hard to adjust.

Roman shifts just a tad, hitting Dick's prostate, and Dick moans, hands twisting in the sheets. Roman's hand on his hip tightens in response, his other yanking at the leash. Dick chokes again, gasping for air and trying to breathe past the pain, and he hears Roman's low chuckle.

"You tighten so nicely around me when I do that," Roman tells him, and yanks again, then groans. "Christ, baby, just like that."

If Dick could actually breathe, he might comment on the fact that he's not really _doing_ anything, just spasming in response to Roman _choking_ him, but as is he doesn't say a word. It's not like it matters, anyhow.

But this _hurts,_ his body throbbing with each thrust. His ribs are still giving him trouble, and the way his legs are spread is twisting his injured ankle in a really difficult way, but he breathes through it. It's not the first time Roman's fucked him while he's been hurt—even if this is a bit of a step up—and it certainly won't be the last. Roman won't ever stop. He just. This will never stop.

As if in response to his thoughts, his chest twinges, the brand flaring as if to tell him how owned he is, how stuck, how this is his life. And he can do nothing but bury his face in the pillows and let Roman take what he wants from his property.

Roman digs his teeth into Dick's shoulder, worrying at the skin until it aches, and then does it again and again, littering Dick's skin with bite marks. It briefly makes Dick anxious, remembering how vicious the bites the other day were, before he reminds himself that Roman's in his right mind now. He's not going to be so brutal.

The bites ache but they don't break skin, and Roman drags his tongue along them, making a pleased noise. The leash releases just a little as Roman's thrusts begin to pick up, and Dick prepares for the feeling of Roman coming inside of him—

There's a click, and Roman freezes.

Dick twists his head around, trying to figure out why he'd suddenly stopped, and then he freezes too, eyes going wide.

Standing beside the bed, pistol pressed against the side of Roman's head, is Slade, decked out head to toe in full Deathstroke regalia. Dick sees the man's blue eye scan over him briefly, but he can't see the rest of his expression, the mask blocking any emotions from view.

"Whatever they're paying you," Roman says, impressively level considering the situation, "I'll triple it."

Slade tilts his head. "Who?"

"Whoever," Roman snarls. "Whoever is paying you to kill me, I'll triple the amount they're offering to put your fucking gun down and walk away."

The corner of Slade's eye crinkles, the impression of a smile, and he shakes his head a little. "This isn't a job."

With his free hand Slade grabs Roman's wrist and digs his thumb into a pressure point. Roman cries out, hand spasming, and drops the leash wrapped through his fingers. As soon as the leash has dropped, Slade rips Roman off of the bed, tossing him to the floor.

He follows him right down, pinning Roman in place and easily blocking the other man's attempts at hitting him. Quickly and efficiently, Slade flips Roman onto his stomach and binds his arms, wrists to elbows, and then ties his ankles together as well.

And through it all, Dick lies there on the bed, watching. He doesn't know why he can't react, why he feels so distant from everything that's happening, but he does. He knows Slade is suddenly here, and attacking Roman, and now has Roman tied up, and Roman is yelling, and Dick is naked and collared and leashed, and that he should be moving, but it's all so...distant.

"You with me, kid?"

Dick blinks, and suddenly Slade is crouched in front of him, mask removed. They're close enough that Dick can see the tiny sunspots at Slade's temples, the details of the frown lines around his mouth. People's faces have so many unbelievable details when you really look, like how no two snowflakes are exactly alike. Even with the fact that Slade barely ages, he still has all these very human little details.

Slade sighs. "I'm gonna take that as a no."

He stands back up, heading over to where Roman is now wiggling onto his back, expression filled with rage as he glares up at Slade.

"What the hell, Wilson?" he snarls. "Take my fucking money and get out."

"Mm, no, don't think I will," Slade replies easily. He cocks his gun. "I was gonna let the kid have a say in how this happens, but he seems a little fucked up at the moment so we do what we must."

He raises the gun, aiming at Roman's head.

Everything comes back into startling focus for Dick.

"No," Dick breathes, and scrambles across the bed, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees. His casted arm throbs at having to take some of his weight, but he barely notices it, all of his attention on that gun. "No, Slade, no!"

Slade tilts his head slightly, looking at Dick. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Grayson," he says dryly.

"This is about him?" Roman hisses. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Slade doesn't even blink, unbothered by the interjection. "Any injuries that need immediate medical attention?" he asks Dick, eye flicking over him, probably noticing each and every detail about the way Dick's holding himself, and what that means for the state of his body as a whole. His eye narrows when dragging across the stitched bites and brand on Dick's chest. It makes Dick swallow.

"I—I'm fine," Dick says. "Slade, put down the gun, you can't—"

"Why not?"

Dick lets out a strangled noise of frustration, his heart loud in his ears. "Because I'm not gonna let you ruin my family just because you want to win a pissing contest!"

"You're not going to _let me?"_ Slade echoes, lips curving into a small, amused smile. "Kid, look at yourself. A busted arm and foot and all the other damage you're sporting? You wouldn't stand a _chance_ against me."

"Slade," Dick says desperately. Roman has correctly chosen to stay silent. "He—their identities _cannot_ get out, okay? It's—they _can't._ You understand how much danger they'll be in? And everyone we've ever met? And then how much worse off Gotham will be after we can't do our jobs? I get you don't care overly much about _justice_ but—"

"It's handled."

Dick blinks at him. "What?"

Slade looks at him, so sure and confident, and repeats, "It's handled. I took care of the problem. And those photos of you along with it. It's not a problem anymore, kid. I handled it."

And looking at him right now, thinking about everything in their history, Dick believes him.

"Oh," he says quietly, and doesn't know what to do now. The threat is gone. After four months, the danger always hanging over his head is no longer there. It doesn't even feel real, Slade must be mistaken. It can't just be _handled,_ it's not that simple. Roman's control is absolute.

"Grayson," Slade calls sharply, and Dick zones back in. Slade's foot is in the middle of Roman's chest, pinning him in place. There's a gag in Roman's mouth. How long did he zone out?

"'M here," Dick mumbles. He pushes himself up further, sitting on the edge of the bed. He's still naked, he realizes. Still has the leash attached to his collar.

Collar. One of Roman's signs of ownership. Which...he doesn't have to wear anymore, if the threat is actually gone. That's not possible.

"How are you here?" Dick asks, squinting up at Slade. He grabs for the sheet, planning to wrap it around himself, but suddenly he doesn't want to be touching this bed anymore, doesn't want Roman's sheet around his body. So he stands, eyes searching for something, and then grabs a robe from the chair in the corner, tying it tightly around himself.

He wants to remove the leash, stop the way it hangs in front of him, but he always needs Roman's permission before doing something like that.

Wait, but. But if Slade is telling the truth.

"That's a long story," Slade says gruffly. "Explanation can come later. For now—"

He re-aims his shot, gun pointed towards Roman's head.

"No!" Dick shouts, jerking forward, hand outstretched.

He doesn't know why he says it. He doesn't know why he's trying to save Roman's life. It's just...instinct. He's supposed to. He has to save Roman. Roman can't die. Bad things will happen if he dies. Roman _cannot_ die, it's not even possible.

Slade only looks at him. He doesn't seem surprised by the response.

"C'm'ere, kid," Slade sighs, nodding him closer.

Dick follows the instruction, stepping up beside the mercenary. He looks down at Roman, his chest tight as he sees the man glaring up at him. He doesn't want Roman to be angry with him; Roman's anger never leads to good things. He needs to help him. He needs to be good, do as he's told. He shouldn't allow Roman to look so—helpless.

Because he _does_ look helpless, bound and gagged at their feet, unable to stop anything from happening. He has no control over the situation, no way out. That's not supposed to be possible.

"Do you want him dead?" Slade asks.

Dick blinks and looks up, meeting Slade's gaze. There's something very simple about the way Slade asked that, about the way he's looking at him right now. Like this is an easy, regular thing to talk about. Like _wanting Roman dead_ is a normal thing, a _possible_ thing.

Slade doesn't look judgmental or goading. To him, it's a very simple question. To Dick, it's one of the most impossible things to ever imagine.

Dick looks back down at Roman. He's so...defenseless. No power, no bodyguards, not even his voice to talk his way out. No blackmail. Just a man on the ground with a gun pointed at his head.

"Do you want him dead?" Slade asks again.

Roman stares right back at Dick, a threat in his dark eyes. The _anger_ radiating off of him makes Dick fight a shudder, makes him fight the urge to tell Slade to back off _right now._ Roman's anger is a terrifying thing; Dick isn't supposed to make Roman angry. Bad things happen when Roman is angry. He—he needs to help Roman. He's supposed to help Roman.

"Dick, look at me."

He wants to, but he can't take his eyes off of Roman. At the man who claimed him as property, who put a collar around his throat and seared his initials into his skin. Four months, seven years, _nine years_ this man has owned a part of his very being. Will _always_ own him.

Because that's the thing, isn't it? The big revelation Dick had just a little while ago. That he's never leaving Roman. That he can't _ever_ leave Roman. He belongs to Roman in every way, is barely more than his property, his whore, his pretty thing to show off and abuse and kiss all better. 

And _dead?_ Roman can't die. He's the monster at the edge of every nightmare, the shadowy figure in the corner of each of his fears. Roman has control of him, has the power to make him do whatever he wants. He can't die. It's an unimaginable thing.

But if Slade really was successful, if Slade really got rid of the danger...

Does it matter, though? Does it _matter_ if the threat is gone? It removes the original reason for why Dick stayed with Roman but so many things have changed. _Dick_ has changed. What he is now...he's just _Roman's._ Why would Dick ever leave? No one deserves to have to put up with him. He doesn't even understand why Slade's here. Roman's all Dick has.

But Slade _is_ here. Slade is here and he removed the threat and he isn't asking if Dick deserves to leave he's asking if Dick wants Roman _dead._

He thinks about each time Roman pinned him or tied him to the bed. Each cane or belt he took to his back or chest. Each blindfold around his eyes, and the weight around his neck that never left, that he could never escape, that said he _belonged_ to someone no matter where he went. He thinks about how different his body is now because Roman decided he had the right to modify it. Thinks about how he barely remembers what making his own choices _means_ since he's had no control over anything in such a long time.

Maybe Dick deserves it all. Maybe he doesn't. But for all Roman's put him through...

"Grayson—"

"Yes," Dick breathes, not looking away from Roman. "Yes, I want him dead."

The gun goes off with a bang. Roman's head slams back against the ground from the force of it, and then he's _dead,_ blood spilling out of the wound right in the middle of his forehead. Dick can see the life in him go out in a single moment, blue eyes fading, face falling slack, body limp against the floor.

Dick can't look away, taking in every detail. He drags his eyes up and down Roman's body, memorizing what he looks like tied up, gagged, and _dead_ at Dick's feet. He wants to always remember each and every detail about this.

He doesn't know how long he stands there before he looks to Slade, finding the mercenary watching him.

"Get dressed and pack a bag," Slade orders. "Whatever you actually want to keep. Then we're leaving."

Dick just nods, gives Roman one final look, and then turns away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😎✌️


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely blown away by the response to last chapter. Like, I knew I was gonna get a bit of a bump as all of y’all screamed about what happened XD But more than 100 comments?? I’m blown away, I’m riding high. Thank all of y’all so very much!!! I hope this story continues to hold your attention even after the death of Roman; Dick’s troubles are far from over 😉
> 
> ALSO! We have more fabulous art!! Please check out [this moment between Dick and Roman](https://twitter.com/sladickie/status/1292596812063232000) XD

Dick feels Roman's hand running through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands. It stirs Dick into wakefulness, and the man kisses the back of his neck as he crawls on top of him. Dick does nothing to try to stop him, remains pliant beneath the man as he nudges Dick's legs apart and settles between them. Roman grinds down against his ass, cock sliding between his cheeks.

Wasn't Roman gone? Dick remembers...did he dream...?

"You alright there, baby?" Roman asks, nipping lightly at the skin of Dick's shoulder blade.

"You were dead," Dick mumbles. "I thought..."

Roman laughs against his skin. "Oh, sweetheart. You know you can never escape me."

But the bed is moving, moving in a way beds don't move. There are small bumps, the hum of an engine. Something hard and cold against the side of Dick's face. Something digging slightly into his neck.

Dick blinks his eyes open. It takes him a minute to understand where he is, and who he's with. Takes him a minute to accept the chilly window against his cheek, the edge of the seatbelt pressing into his neck. The car moving along a long, empty strip of road.

He glances to the side and sees Slade in the driver's seat, gaze forward on the road. His hands are loose on the steering wheel, his entire posture relaxed. He's changed, at some point, no longer wearing his Deathstroke suit but instead a regular pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket.

Dick's on his blind side, so he allows himself to stare. Slade probably feels him watching, definitely heard him wake up, but the man doesn't spare him any attention.

Dick still doesn't understand why Slade turned up. He doesn't know where they're going, nor did he ask. He got dressed, packed a bag, followed Slade down to the parking garage, got into his car. Let Slade drive him out of Gotham, and keep driving.

He doesn't know when he passed out, but it was dark out when they left and now there's the faintest hint of sunlight on the horizon. The clock on the dashboard is, apparently, busted. He wants to see if the radio works, but he doesn't dare reach for it.

In his head, he sees Roman's face. Marred by the bullet wound. Slack with death. It makes nausea turn Dick's stomach.

"What if I said no?" Dick asks. The words come out as barely more than a breath, but he knows Slade hears him.

"No to what?" Slade's voice is calm, almost _bored._ Dick doesn't have it in him to be bothered at the moment.

"You asked me if I wanted...Roman dead, and then you—shot him when I said yes. What if I said no?"

Slade exhales slowly. "I still would've killed him," he says. "But I would've knocked you out first."

Dick nods, and then looks back out the window. Yeah; he supposes he couldn't have expected anything else.

* * *

Slade grabs his bag from the backseat, shutting the car door behind him. He starts heading towards the house and hears Dick exit the car, the boy shutting the door far more carefully than Slade had. He follows after him silently, only Slade's enhanced senses picking out his gait at all.

He doesn't ask where they are, nor what the plan is. He hasn't said a word since asking Slade _"_ _What if I said no"_ three hours ago, though Slade knows he's been awake the whole time. He hasn't raised one word of protest the whole time.

Slade is absolutely not worried.

He unlocks the door and enters, removing his shoes and then heading through the entry way and into the living room. He deposits his bag of gear on the couch to deal with later, and then turns to face Dick.

The kid is glancing around with a vaguely curious expression, but he mostly just looks tired, despite having slept for seven hours in the car. His eyes scan over the filled bookshelves, the comfortable furniture, the fact that Slade is now shoeless.

Slade waits for him to ask where they are, or make a deduction with the evidence presented to him. But still, Dick doesn't say anything, instead toeing off his shoes and placing them neatly next to Slade's before turning to look at Slade, waiting.

Slade suppresses the anger that rises in him; the kid would think it's directed at him, and it's really, _really_ not.

"Come on," Slade says gruffly, turning away. "I'll give you a tour."

He leads Dick through the house, pointing out the kitchen, bathrooms, gym, weapons room, and surveillance room. He lets Dick get a good look at the screen of camera feeds, allowing the kid to know where the cameras around the property are, but he barely spares them more than a single glance. It makes something unpleasant itch under Slade's skin.

"This is your room." Slade opens the door and gestures Dick inside, the boy doing so and looking around absently. "There are toiletries and clean towels in the dresser."

Dick turns back to look at him. There are a million questions in his eyes, and Slade waits for him to voice any of them, to snap out of whatever shut down is going on in his head. But still, nothing.

"It is currently—" Slade glances at his watch, "—eight-ten in the morning. You have twenty minutes to get settled, and then come to the kitchen."

He turns and leaves without waiting for a response. He knows he won't get one.

When Slade first saw Dick in Roman Sionis' office, the first thing that made sense was that maybe Dick was undercover for some reason, and Slade was in a good enough mood so he didn't feel the need to ruin that for the kid.

But that theory faded very, _very_ quickly. The way Dick was reacting to Sionis, the way Sionis was looking at him—and then the collar. The fucking _collar._

And things only got worse from there.

Slade's never made a secret of his interest in Dick; he's never really seen the point. He still carried some hope of one day having him—whether in his bed or as the mercenary the boy has all the potential to be, Slade isn't picky. Both, if it were possible. But he's patient, and smart. He knows how to put in the work, how to play the long game.

And then _Roman Sionis_ had the fucking _audacity_ to take the strong, powerful hero Nightwing and turn him into a _plaything._

It was painfully obvious what was happening to the kid, the conditioning in his every action. Slade wasn't lying when he said he'd be impressed if it wasn't Black Fucking Mask who'd done it. Dick is one of the most strong-willed, obstinate individuals Slade has ever met, so the fact that he'd be so thoroughly neutered _was_ impressive. Slade was just so disgusted by the one who'd managed to do it.

Roman Sionis, of all people. A power-hungry, psychopathic megalomaniac. A true waste of space, and because of a _fluke_ he had Dick in his hands. And man did he run with it. Fucked the kid up pretty good, from what Slade witnessed in that meeting.

Killing him sure felt damn good.

Slade can't believe Dick's family left him there for so long. _Failed him_ for so long. Slade will admit that tracking down all of Sionis' evidence wasn't an easy task, took him some time, had to kill a couple people along the way, but _still._ With how little progress they made it's almost like they didn't _want_ to have Dick back.

The smartest thing Todd ever did was calling Slade in. The way he did it, not so much, and Slade'll be pissed about that for a little while. But Slade actually got shit done, and now Dick is away from that bastard.

Of course, Todd probably didn't count on Slade seeing their incompetence and deciding they don't deserve to have Dick back, but beggars can't be choosers.

Slade sets about making breakfast, pulling out all the materials needed and getting to work. One eye on the bacon, he starts making a pot of coffee, and puts a kettle on to boil in case Dick wants that instead. The first step—having the kid make his own small decisions.

Slade isn't an idiot, he knows this isn't going to be easy. He knows Dick is seriously fucked up in the head right now. But Dick said yes; he gave Slade his blessing to shoot Sionis dead. Which means the kid isn't completely gone, not _completely_ destroyed by Sionis' manipulations.

He's buried under a mountain of conditioning, but Slade is going to dig him out.

Right as the clock hits eight-thirty, Dick enters the kitchen. Slade isn't surprised by the promptness; even before everything with Sionis, Dick wasn't one to be late. However, the way the kid hovers in the doorway, unsure and wary, is _definitely_ new.

"Take a seat," Slade says, pointing to the bar stools tucked under the kitchen island.

Dick follows the instruction immediately and without a word, just like he did when Slade told him to pack a bag and then get in the car. How pliant he's acting is...concerning, maybe, and Slade adds it to the growing list of things to work on. Not that he has any idea how the hell he's going to fix it.

"Where are we?" Dick asks quietly, and Slade's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, glancing over at him. The boy has his eyes fixed on his folded hands where they sit on the island, but even if he can't meet Slade's eye, asking a question is progress.

Slade goes back to his pan, flipping the eggs. Instantly, he can feel Dick's eyes on him. "Kentucky."

His house. His actual house, the one that he could _maybe_ even call home, not just a random safehouse. Seemed like the best place to go, for a long-term stay. Of course, it will make keeping Billy out of his business harder, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

"Why are we in Kentucky?"

Even more surprising than the first question is the fact that Dick continues with a follow-up. This is downright _chatty_ compared to before. That's good, right?

"Because it's better than Gotham," Slade snorts. He turns and puts a plate in front of Dick, who blinks at it in surprise before looking up at him, meeting his eye.

"Thank you," Dick says, and Slade nods, despite how Dick is already looking back down at the table.

"Do you want coffee or tea?"

Dick's eyes flick up to his again, then past him to where the coffee is brewing and the kettle is close to whistling. He hesitates and looks at Slade again, and Slade tries to be patient, staring back at Dick with a placid expression.

Seems like the kid is trying to make his decision based on what he thinks Slade will want from him, and Slade isn't going to give him any tells one way or the other. Dick needs to start being able to make choices for himself, decisions that have no importance and will face no consequences if it goes against what Slade might prefer.

Slade watched some of the security footage from the penthouse before wiping it all, just enough to get an idea for what Dick's life has been like. He knows that Sionis liked "punishing" Dick for random and ridiculous things, depending on the man's mood of the day. Slade even witnessed first-hand in that meeting how Dick would say whatever Sionis wanted to hear when asked a question.

He has no interest in Dick continuing that with him.

"Coffee, please," Dick says, almost hesitantly. Slade nods, still offering no real reaction. He grabs two mugs from the cabinet and pours out the coffee for both of them before passing one over to Dick across the table, which Dick accepts with a murmured word of thanks.

Slade looks the kid over while he eats. He's still pretty banged up from what Sionis did to him, the bruises across his face and neck still livid. His shirt is blocking the rest of the damage from sight, but Slade is incapable of forgetting what's there. What he saw in the bedroom. The bruises, the bites, the _brand._

A collar, a leash, a brand. Like Dick is _property._ Roman Sionis had no right.

They eat in silence. The line of Dick's shoulders is tense, like he's waiting for something bad to happen, but Slade stays relaxed, sipping his coffee and thinking about what to do next.

He could do with some sleep, probably, and Dick only got about seven hours, which he's going to need way more than considering he's still recovering.

Ah, add that to the list. Finding out what exactly the damage is, so he can get the shit Dick needs. Slade can tell from the bruises around his neck that trachea damage is likely, and considering there isn't a hole in his throat for intubation, he probably just needs some antibiotics and humidified oxygen, if Slade remembers correctly from when Billy had a similar injury (though under very different circumstances).

He really shouldn't be walking around, either. His ankle is in a brace and looks inflamed; it'll never heal if the kid continues on the way he is. Slade knows how much Dick hates to be still, but it'll take twice as long to heal if he doesn't take care of it.

Clothes, too. They need to get him clothes. The bag Dick packed isn't big, and seemed to consist mainly of slacks and button-downs like what he's wearing right now. None of it seems the slightest bit comfortable.

Slade withholds a sigh, shaking his head. Why is he doing this? Why not just drop him off with one of his million friends somewhere and be done with it? He did his part, got the kid out, killed Sionis. He doesn't need to be worrying over medication and clothing and if the kid is sleeping enough. That should be someone else's problem; he's sure there are countless people who would love to take Dick Grayson in.

But they'd more than likely call the bats and send him right back to Gotham. They'd put him back in the city where everything went wrong, back in the hands of the people who fucked up, and Slade can't let that happen. The bats don't deserve to pat each other on the back and proclaim a job well done, then fuck Dick up even further with their emotional constipation.

Now, Slade isn't exactly the poster child for _feelings,_ but at least the kid doesn't feel any obligation towards him like he does to that cult he calls a family. He won't destroy himself to make Slade happy like he would them. And right now, that's a very good thing.

"Run down the damage for me," Slade says when it seems like Dick is finished eating.

Dick looks up at him and doesn't seem confused by what he means. "Group One trachea damage, bruised cheekbone, mild concussion. Two cracked ribs, one bruised. Broken arm, a torn ligament in my wrist, sprained ankle. Sixteen stitches over the...the bites on my chest and shoulder."

He says it all like a mission report. Maybe he's viewing it that way to make it easier to deal with. Maybe that's just how he's used to answering questions when it comes to people in their line of work. Slade doesn't think the reasoning matters.

"I'll get you what you need," Slade tells him. Dick's eyes flash with something resembling... _surprise,_ at his needs being met. Slade tries to not take it personally.

"Thank you," Dick says.

Now isn't the time to tell him he doesn't have to thank him for getting him something to have him be in less pain. Dick's probably used to having to thank Sionis for the simple hell of being alive.

Slade gets up and takes the plates to the sink to wash. "Dry them when I'm done." It's fair to divvy up tasks, after all. and Dick is going to need things to do while he's here; might as well start now.

Dick steps up beside him and picks up a towel, wordlessly taking the dishes from Slade to dry when Slade's finished washing them.

When the task is done and Slade steps away, Dick's timid voice calls, "Slade?"

Looking back at him shows Dick staring at the ground, brow furrowed. "Yeah, kid?"

"What are the..." Dick hesitates, shifting his weight. He grimaces as he leans on his bad ankle, and shifts back. "What are the rules?"

Slade frowns. "Rules?"

Dick is holding himself very still. "Yeah. For...for staying here, and for—training."

Slade blinks. Shit, he didn't consider that Dick would think he was here to train, to act as an _apprentice._ It makes sense that he would, and it's not like Slade's been particularly forthcoming, but it makes Slade feel a little...uneasy, that Dick would think Slade would want to start training him in the state he's in, right after what he's been through.

Sure, Slade had planned on keeping the kid busy, maybe teach him a couple easy things just to give him something to _do_ and sharpen some of those skills that have been wasting away these last few months, but he definitely isn't going to take advantage of the situation to begin training Dick the way he wants him.

Despite how tempting an idea that is.

"You're not here to train, kid."

Dick's expression twists. He's still staring at the ground. When he speaks, it's barely more than whisper. "Alright. Then why _am_ I here?"

Slade doesn't have a satisfactory answer for _himself,_ let alone for Dick. So instead he turns away, heading down the hall towards the door.

"Come on," he calls. "We're going shopping."

* * *

Turns out, shopping for clothes with someone unused to making decisions and unwilling to risk angering the person _buying_ the clothes is rather difficult.

Slade makes it through half an hour of watching Dick go through periods of hesitation and stubbornness and embarrassment without actually choosing anything before he takes over, frustration winning out.

He gets ten t-shirts, five pairs of pants, two packs of boxer-briefs, a set of pajamas, and a pair of sneakers and then calls it a day. Going by the way Dick runs his fingers over the soft material of one of the shirts and smiles just a little, he figures that wasn't a horrible decision.

They stop at a pharmacy on the way back to the house, and he picks up everything he could possibly need. The house is sorely lacking in medical supplies, considering Slade doesn't really have any use for it, but Dick is pure, unadulterated human, and in bad shape.

Dick makes a face when Slade gets back to the car and thrusts a pair of crutches at him, and Slade huffs a laugh at the brief show of personality.

"You're gonna use them," Slade tells him, lips curving in amusement as he pulls back up to the house. "Not gonna fuck up that ankle any more than you already have."

"Or what, you'll carry me everywhere?" Dick mutters back, and when Slade glances at him he sees a faint smile on the kid's face.

"Use the crutches," Slade insists, and thankfully Dick does.

Slade figures any form of actual schedule can be established tomorrow, after Dick's had a full night's sleep and been away from Sionis for more than twenty-four hours. _Then_ Slade can put together some form of order, give Dick things to do, something to depend on.

For today, though, Slade gestures Dick towards the living room, hands him the remote to the TV, grants him permission to take any of the books from the shelves he wants, and then takes his gear back to the weapons room to clean it all and put it away.

At noon, he makes lunch, and Dick washes the dishes, then allows Slade to get a look at his ankle.

At six, Slade makes dinner, and Dick thanks him for everything he got him today. Slade grunts in response.

The kid keeps watching him whenever they're in the same room, tense like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. Slade supposes that's understandable, after spending all his time with someone who always wanted _something_ from him. Probably hard to understand why Slade is just sitting there reading a book across the room from him.

Slade tries to not let the attention bug him. He knows if he points it out, the kid might apologize, and Slade really doesn't want to hear that.

Kid's already done enough apologizing for the simple crime of existing.

Around ten, Dick sits up and glances at Slade hesitantly. Slade's getting very used to that expression on Dick's face, and he doesn't like it.

"I'm gonna...shower, and head to bed?"

While the wording is a statement, the inflection at the end makes it a question. Slade holds back a sigh.

"See you in the morning, kid."

Dick nods and grabs the crutches, using them to push himself to his feet. He wobbles for a moment, his casted arm struggling into place, but Slade doesn't offer assistance, remembering how he reacted to an offer of help back in Sionis' penthouse.

Half an hour after that, Slade heads to bed himself, going through his nightly routine of shutting down the house and checking the cameras one last time before brushing his teeth. He passes Dick's room on the way back to his own and finds the door wide open.

He frowns and peeks his head inside. Dick is lying on the bed, feet still planted on the floor. His hair is damp and curling against his forehead, and he absently brushes it out of his eyes as he stares up at the ceiling.

Slade wonders what he's thinking about. Sionis, probably. It's going to take Dick a long time to recover from what that bastard did to him, and even longer before he stops constantly thinking about him. But he'll get there. And Slade, for some reason, is going to help.

Dick takes note of him after a little while, far longer than he would've in the past. They'll have to work on his awareness. Slade adds it to the list.

"Hey," Dick says quietly, not moving. He looks so exposed and vulnerable laid out like that, and Slade resists the urge to snap at him to be more conscious of the fact that Slade is a threat. Dick used to relax around him sometimes, if they were working towards a common goal, but nowhere _near_ this level, nor should he have. He has no defenses up right now. It's unsettling.

"Got everything you need?" Slade asks, glancing around the room even though he knows he stocked it with any necessities. Not that Dick would tell him if there's something he needs, come to think of it. He's too used to not asking for anything.

Dick nods. He's wearing the same button-down and slacks from before, which Slade doesn't understand; he bought the kid new clothes, including pajamas, and Dick _just_ took a shower—why put the same clothes back on?

He lets it go, though. It's not an issue he's going to press right now; they have a long road ahead of them.

Slade nods back, and then turns to leave; they could both use a good night's sleep.

"Hey, Slade?" Dick says timidly, and Slade glances over at him to see him sitting on the edge of the bed. He's not quite looking Slade in the eye, more like at his chin.

"What's up, kid?"

"I just wanted to say..." Dick trails off, grimacing a little. His eyes flit away and then back again, and then actually rise to meet Slade's gaze. The way he's holding himself is like he's bracing to be hurt. "Wanted to say—thank you. I...you didn't have to—well. You really didn't have to show up. I still don't..." He shakes his head. "Just. You didn't have to do any of it. But you did. So. Thank you."

Slade rubs a hand over his face, sighing. He enters the room and sits down on the bed next to Dick.

He's silent for a long moment, trying to think of what to say. He's never been one to mince words or be careful with them, never really seen the point. But he's never had to deal with something like _this_ before. He's still second-guessing his decision. He's probably not the person the kid needs. But he's better than his family, and like hell is Slade capable of letting go of Dick right now.

"Look," Slade says. "I'm gonna make a rule. No thanking me for getting you out of that hellhole."

Dick's brow furrows, confused. "But—"

"No," Slade interrupts, looking over at him. "No _buts._ I mean it, Grayson. I didn't do it for your gratitude."

"Then why did you do it?" Dick asks, blue eyes so _fragile._

Slade presses his lips into a thin line. Once upon a time, having Dick be _fragile_ and _trusting_ would've been an excellent day for Slade. Easy to control, easy to swing to his side. But now...

Fucking Roman Sionis.

When Slade doesn't respond, Dick shakes his head and then leans it against Slade's shoulder. "Can I say it one more time?" he whispers.

Slade is amused despite himself. "No."

Dick huffs a laugh. He tilts his head up, smiling crookedly at Slade. "Alright," he agrees, tone indulgent, almost teasing.

It's the most personality Slade's seen come out of the kid yet, a shimmer of who he used to be, who he still is under all Sionis made him. Slade feels viciously pleased by it; Sionis gave breaking Dick his best shot, but Grayson is made of stronger stuff. He'll come out the other side of this, Slade knows it. It might take a while, but that's alright. Nightwing is still in there.

And maybe Renegade is, too.

Slade doesn't know why he does it. Maybe it's still from that vicious place, that place that wants to screw Sionis over as much as possible. Maybe it's because of the thought of having Dick work for him again. Maybe it's that shimmer of personality, that liveliness that embodies Dick Grayson that Slade has never been able to resist.

Maybe it's simply because Dick is right here, pliant and smiling at him and pressed close. Maybe it's because he _wants_ the kid, has for a while, and what better an opportunity?

Whatever the reason, Slade kisses him.

It's small, simply leaning in to brush his lips against Dick's, lifting his hand to the kid's cheek to tilt his head up a little further to meet him. Dick doesn't resist, doesn't tense up under the touch, nor try to pull away from the kiss.

When Slade leans back just a little, Dick is blinking at him, lips parted.

"Oh," he says quietly.

Then _he's_ the one to lean in, pressing his lips to Slade's far more firmly. His hand goes to the back of Slade's neck, pulling him closer, and Slade goes readily, biting Dick's lip to encourage him to open his mouth, then licking into it, deepening the kiss.

Dick is leaning back but not releasing his hold on Slade, so Slade pushes him back the rest of the way to lie down, head on the pillows, and then climbs on top of him. Dick's legs part easily to let him slide between them, and Slade makes a pleased noise, grinding down against him. Dick's grip on the back of his neck would be bruising on anyone else, hanging onto him tightly, and wraps his other arm around Slade's shoulders.

Slade reaches for the button of Dick's pants and pops it open, then waits for any negative reaction. But Dick just keeps kissing him and hanging on, so Slade pulls down the zipper, too, and then inches down his pants. He lifts Dick slightly, getting his hands on his ass and squeezing, humming into Dick mouth when the boy shivers.

Slade breaks the kiss to mouth at his jaw instead. He wants to bite and suck at his neck, but the bruises there are still livid, reminding Slade of how fragile Dick truly is right now. It makes a growl bubble out of him, angry all over again at the fact that someone as despicable as Roman Sionis did this to the kid.

Dick's breath hitches and he grinds up against Slade, legs spreading further, head tipping back to give Slade more access. Slade presses gentle kisses against the offered skin, resisting the urge to leave some marks of his own. Not yet.

He releases Dick's ass to reach for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them from the bottom up and stroking his hands up Dick's body as he does so. When the shirt is open, Slade has to swallow back his rage at the bruises and vicious bites and the _brand_ —marks Sionis had no right to leave on Grayson, marks that would never leave him.

Slade wishes he could kill Sionis all over again, slowly this time. As painfully as he could manage. And Slade can manage quite a lot.

Slade moves back up to kiss Dick again, but pauses when he gets a look at Dick's face. The boy's head is still tilted up and away, baring his neck, and there's something very—distant in his eyes. Absent. The same way he looked when Slade was in that bedroom with him, the kid sliding in and out of awareness. He looks completely gone.

It's like a punch to the gut. Does Dick even know where he is anymore? Who he's with? Does he think he's back with Sionis, doing whatever he has to in order to keep the psychopath happy with him?

The quiet _'Oh'_ when Slade kissed him, so soon after asking why Slade saved him. A question Slade didn't answer.

God _dammit._

Slade begins to pull back. Dick's hand on the back of his neck resists, but his expression doesn't change, and Slade removes himself from the kid's grip easily enough.

But as soon as Slade is off of him, Dick starts to panic. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, head jerking to look at Slade, but he isn't looking at _Slade._ Slade can see it, now that he's actually looking. Dick doesn't look present at all, completely captured by a dissociative episode, made all the worse by the level of trauma he's been experiencing.

God fucking _dammit._

Dick sits up, following him, reaching for him. "I'm sorry," he says, running a hand down Slade's chest. Slade catches it before it can reach his crotch, but Dick just inches closer. "I'm sorry, it's okay."

"Oh, kid," Slade sighs. He really fucked this one up, didn't he?

"I can lie on my stomach if you don't like the marks," Dick says, cupping Slade's cheek. He's looking Slade in the eye, but his gaze is unfocused, glazed over. "You don't have to look at them."

"Dick—" Slade starts.

"Or we can do this instead," Dick says, sliding off the bed and to his knees before Slade. Slade stares, unable to get himself to stop Dick when the boy shuffles forward between his legs, hands reaching up to rest on the insides of Slade's thighs, leaning in to press his mouth against Slade's half-hard bulge. It makes Slade suck in a sharp breath.

It would be so easy. He doesn't even have to do anything; Dick is doing all the work, offering himself on a silver platter. He looks so good there between Slade's thighs, an extremely appealing sight. Slade wants to let him take him into his mouth, wants to see how far this eagerness goes. Wants to fuck his throat.

No one would have to know. It could be just a one-time thing, and then they could put this behind them. Dick wouldn't stop him, is even actively participating, taking the initiative. No one's here to judge him. Dick wouldn't blame him. It doesn't have to be a big deal.

But this isn't really Dick. This is a conditioned, broken mess Roman Sionis stitched together all wrong, only on his knees because he thinks he has to be, thinks that _this_ is why Slade saved him. This isn't the Dick Slade has pictured having, isn't bright fire and sharp smiles and annoying quips. This might look like Dick, but in this moment, he's barely more than a vessel.

Slade takes Dick's hands firmly but gently, pulling them off of him, and pushes Dick back. "Kid—"

"I'm sorry," Dick says, trying to move forward again. Slade keeps him at a distance. "I'm—Daddy, I'm sorry—"

"Fuck," Slade curses. He gets abruptly to his feet, which makes Dick fall back on his ass. He blinks dazedly up at Slade, watching as Slade strides towards the door. His expression crumples, vulnerable and fragile and _confused._

God motherfucking dammit.

Slade turns back around and moves back over to Dick. He grabs him by the biceps and hauls him to his feet. Dick looks at him with wide eyes; he seems slightly more present. Slade shakes him anyway.

 _"Look at me,_ Dick," Slade snaps, and Dick sucks in a sharp breath, blinking at him. "Snap out of it! You're not this. You're so much better than this."

"Please, I'm sorry," Dick says hoarsely.

Slade lets out a frustrated noise and releases Dick, taking a step back. He's not equipped to handle this, he doesn't know why he thought he was. He's not a _caretaker,_ never has been, _especially_ not to the level Dick needs right now. He just thought—Dick's family doesn't deserve to have him back. They fucked everything up. Dick needed to be far away from Gotham. Away from anything reminding him of Roman.

And what Slade just did certainly isn't helping matters.

"Okay," Slade says, running a hand over his face. "Alright."

Taking a few deep breaths, Slade steps forward again. This time he cups Dick's cheeks gently instead of grabbing him, and tilts Dick's head up to meet his eyes. Dick reaches up to put his hands over Slade's.

"I did not get you away from Sionis so I could fuck you," Slade says firmly. "What just happened was a mistake, and I won't do it again; _I_ am sorry, kid. You don't have to be afraid of this here, alright? I'm not going to hurt you, or use you."

"I don't understand," Dick whispers, closing his eyes. His hands drop to his sides. "You..."

"Why don't you get some rest, kid," Slade suggests, as gently as he can manage. He lets his hands fall, too.

Dick nods absently. "Yeah, sure..."

He lets Slade steer him back towards the bed and then hand him a pair of pajamas. He stares down at them, running his fingers over the material. Slade heads for the door.

"You're gonna be fine, kid," Slade tells him. Dick looks up at him blankly. "I promise."

Dick bites his lips and hesitantly nods. "Okay."

Slade nods back, far more decisively. "Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: How the chapter started:  
> Come on, you guys, too many of you commented about it all just being a dream, I _had_ to add that in! You probably didn't get as much amusement from it as I did XD
> 
> Hope you enjoyed all this Slade POV!


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussions of past suicidal ideation

It is just past midnight when the batsignal lights up.

It's been a relatively slow night, all things considered, and at the moment Batman isn't doing anything except perching on a roof, so he doesn't hesitate to send out a line and head towards the precinct.

Gordon is waiting on the roof for him when he arrives, a grave look on his face. Batman strides forward, knowing Jim only ever looks that serious when it's something big.

The commissioner doesn't wait for him to ask. "Roman Sionis is dead."

Batman stares. For the first time in a long time while under the cowl, words fail him. "He—what?"

Gordon reaches out, offering a stack of glossy photos, and Batman takes them automatically, looking down and seeing the lifeless body of one such Roman Sionis. Single gunshot to the head, execution style. A cloth gag is wrapped around his head, his ankles are tied together, and his arms are twisted underneath him in a way that suggests they're bound as well. His penis is out of his pants.

"He was found about an hour ago," Gordon tells him, "along with six of his men through the rest of his penthouse apartment. One of his, ah, _bodyguards_ called it in. When officers arrived on scene, there was a doctor present and five of Sionis' men. They didn't resist questioning, but didn't know anything. And going by how disturbed they all looked, I really don't think any of them are responsible. Seems like a hit to me. Coroner puts TOD between seven and eight pm."

Dick, Jim isn't saying anything about Dick, where is Dick?

"Did Sionis' boyfriend witness anything?" Batman asks.

Something almost like _pity_ creeps into Gordon's expression, another moment in their long career working together that makes Batman wonder whether or not Jim figured out the secret and is just far too polite to say anything, but all he can focus on is that _pity_ means something bad. Oh god, is Dick—?

"There was no sign of Richard Grayson," Gordon says. "As of this moment he isn't a suspect, considering the style of the deaths, but his disappearance after the murders does make him a person of interest. There's also the possibility that whoever killed Sionis _took_ Grayson. In the morning I'll be visiting Wayne Manor to ask if they've received any ransom note, or if they know anything at all about Grayson's location."

The words feel pointed, like Gordon is giving him a heads up, but again Batman can't pay it any attention. Dick is missing. Dick is _missing._ Sionis and six of his men were killed, and Dick is _gone._

"Sionis was a paranoid person, his penthouse likely has cameras."

"Already looked," Gordon confirms, "and yes, there are cameras. They cover about ninety-five percent of the penthouse, actually. But it's a dead end."

Batman frowns. "Ninety-five percent has to show _something."_

"It would, if the feeds hadn't been wiped," Gordon says. A lead ball settles in Batman's gut. "Apparently Sionis kept records of just about everything, but all of the video feeds going back six months have been wiped. In fact, _everything_ going back six months has been wiped, like Sionis hasn't done a single thing in half a year."

Dick has the skill to do that, if he's responsible. Wiping anything that might relate to himself, and then adding on an extra couple months to disguise his intention. Smart. But killing seven men? Killing seven men with single gunshots to the head like a hitman? No, Dick isn't capable of that. Batman is _sure_ Dick isn't capable of that.

Of course, Dick has been sexually, physically, and psychologically abused for the past four months with barely a few hours of reprieve. That changes people. That has long-lasting consequences. If Dick were to snap...

Well, with the training he has, he could very easily have accomplished this.

Batman has to find him.

"Batman," Gordon calls, and Batman looks at him. "We'll figure out what happened," he says seriously.

Batman nods tightly. "Goodnight, Commissioner."

And with that he takes off, not bothering to conceal his exit like he normally would.

He has to figure out what to do next. He and Red Hood are the only ones out tonight, the others taking the night off after the tough day they've all had. Hood was supposed to be off as well, but Hood is a lot like Batman in the regard that neither of them handle emotional distress well. They both tend to work harder when things get challenging. Batman can't begrudge his son reacting the same way he does.

The logical first step would be calling Red Hood on the comms, then. Hood is already out in the field, and deserves to know more than most that Black Mask is dead. Hood would be furious if Batman kept this from him—from _any_ of them—for any amount of time. Batman is still fighting his age-old instinct to handle things by himself.

But Dick is gone. His _son_ is gone, his boy's abuser dead. He needs to find him. He needs to find out what happened. He needs to bring him _home._

Batman switches channels on his comm. "Red Hood, come in."

There are a few moments of silence, probably Hood debating whether or not he even wants to engage, and then his second son's voice comes through. _"What is it, Batman?"_

Batman doesn't beat around the bush. "Black Mask is dead."

He hears Hood inhale sharply. _"How?"_ he demands. _"Where's N?"_

"Sionis was found an hour ago tied up with a single gunshot wound to the head. Six of his men were killed in a similar fashion. Time of death placed between seven and eight." He hesitates, swallows. "There is no sign of Nightwing."

Red Hood curses. _"I'll meet you at the cave,"_ he says, and then the line goes dead.

Batman calls Oracle. She picks up immediately, and Batman says, "Black Mask is dead," before she can get a word in.

Oracle's surprise is silent before she demands, _"What happened? Is D okay?"_

Batman repeats what he told Hood, and then adds, "Alert the others to meet me in the cave."

 _"Got it,"_ Oracle confirms. _"I'll be on the monitor."_

Batman has no problem with that, so he returns an affirmative and then closes the line. He gets back to the batmobile and drops down into it, zooming off towards the batcave.

When he arrives, Red Hood is already there, face bare, and everyone else is down in the cave as well. Robin is suited up, pulling his gloves on as Batman approaches, but everyone else is in civilian garb.

"What happened?" Tim demands. "Are there any leads? Do you know where Dick is?"

Batman reaches out, offering Tim the pile of photos, and he takes them immediately. The others crowd around, desperate to see as well, except for Jason, who looks at Batman.

"Do you have any information?" Jason asks.

Batman tells them what Gordon told him, about the cameras and how the bodies were found, that Dick isn't a suspect but still a person of interest. He gets a lot of incredulous looks in response to that.

"A _person of interest?"_ Jason says. "Dick didn't do this! I mean, more power to him if he did, but he _didn't._ I mean, he'd never risk—" Jason freezes. "B, did you check to see if anything's been released?"

Batman almost can't breathe for a moment. He hadn't even _thought_ of that. He hadn't remembered the threat hanging over their heads once Gordon told him what happened. All he could think about was that Dick is gone. Sionis is dead and Dick is _gone_ and Batman needs to find him _now._

Distracted, sloppy. He should've checked _immediately_ for any leaks.

"Oracle," he barks.

 _"Already on it,"_ Oracle says, her face popping up on the screen of the batcomputer. _"I'm scanning, but I don't see anything. If our identities were released they would've been released somewhere very public, but there's no chatter at all. It seems like nothing happened."_

"There could be a time delay," Tim says. "So that Sionis could abort the release, if there was a mistake. We could be on a clock right now."

Possible. Likely, even. But there's something about this that doesn't add up, and it's only a gut feeling that tells Batman that their identities aren't going to be released at all.

The penthouse was wiped, far enough back to erase everything that would show Dick. Sionis was tied up before he was killed, while the men on the way to his bedroom were simply shot. Dick is missing, not dead with a gunshot wound to the head like the rest.

Gordon is right, someone took Dick. Or, more likely, Dick left _with_ someone. Someone killed Sionis and got rid of the threat, and Dick went with them.

Now the question is who the _fuck_ would do that? Who is capable of that and would do it for Dick? Or, who would do that at _all,_ and who would Dick trust enough to willingly go with? Was it willing at all?

There are too many unknowns. Batman _hates_ how many unknowns there are, the largest being _where the hell is my son?_

Jason gets the photos from Tim after the others have finished looking at them, and examines them with a critical eye. Batman hasn't even flipped through them all yet. Sloppy, not examining the evidence the way he should. His head is all over the place. He needs to focus.

Something sparks in Jason's eyes. His expression doesn't change at all, nor does his body language, but he swallows.

"What is it?" Batman demands. Jason doesn't move. "You know something."

Everyone looks at Jason. Slowly, very slowly, Jason raises his head to look at Batman. His expression is blank.

"Take the cowl off," Jason says. "This is a family matter, take it off." His eyes flick to Robin. "You too, short stack. Mask off."

Robin scowls viciously, but he must be desperate to hear what Jason has to say, so he follows the instruction without a word, ripping his mask off. Batman follows suit, pushing back the cowl, gaze fixed on Jason.

"What do you know?" Bruce asks again, urgency leaking into his voice.

Jason straightens, squaring his shoulders. He's bracing, like he knows Bruce isn't going to like what he's about to say. Bruce tries to brace as well.

"I tried to pay Deathstroke to help get Dick away from Sionis. He didn't like my method of contacting him and told me he wasn't gonna help. He seemed serious about that; he was pissed. But I think..." Jason looks down at the photos again. "I think this is his handiwork."

Deathstroke. Why would Jason think Deathstroke would care at all? Bruce knows Dick has gone up against the mercenary a few times, most notably when he was a Teen Titan, and that he went undercover at one point with Deathstroke in order to take down the Society, but that's the extent of Bruce's knowledge. Deathstroke is a highly dangerous, hyper-competent mercenary who has reason to hold a grudge against Dick. Why the _hell_ would it be a good idea to bring him into this situation?

"So you think Deathstroke killed seven men, Sionis included, and then kidnapped Dick?" Bruce asks coldly.

Jason frowns at him, responding to the tone, but there's a distinct lack of heat; he's clearly too worried—and maybe _guilty_ —to rise to the bait yet.

"Why would you think he'd help in the first place?" Bruce demands, when Jason doesn't say anything. "Deathstroke has attempted to _kill_ Dick and his teammates since the time Dick was a teenager! If there is _anyone_ I would call Dick's enemy, it would be Deathstroke!"

Jason scowls at him. "Yeah, that's because you don't pay attention to your children's lives. Deathstroke hasn't wanted Dick dead in a long time. They've worked together a few times. The way Dick talked about it—" Jason jerks a shoulder. "I don't know, it sounded like Deathstroke would give a shit about what was happening, or at the very least hate Sionis for doing it enough to intervene."

"And now he has Dick," Bruce says. "So how is your theory working out?"

Jason straightens, that familiar fire sparking in his eyes. "Because you were Mr. Productive, right? You came up with a solution to get Dick out? You had a master plan that you just weren't sharing with the rest of us?"

Bruce says nothing. No, he's had nothing. He's tried so hard, but he got _nowhere._

Jason nods sharply. "Yeah, that's what I thought. But look, Sionis is _dead._ Dick is away from him, and it seems like we're in the clear. That's—that's a _win."_

"For how long?" Bruce demands. "For how long is it a _win?_ Sure, Dick is out of Sionis' grasp, but now he's in _Deathstroke's._ How sure are you that Deathstroke cares enough to not take advantage of the situation? To not _hurt_ Dick? How positive are you, Jason, that this isn't out of the frying pan and into the fire?"

This time, Jason is the one to say nothing. His jaw is clenched, but it looks troubled instead of angry.

"We need to start searching," Cassandra says firmly. Tim nods.

"Priority one is finding Dick," he says. "We can...settle whatever other problems there are after we do that."

Stephanie crosses her arms and juts out her chin. "Let's get to work, then."

* * *

Dick is on edge, Slade can see it. Far more so than the first day.

He knows that's his fault. He know that because of his _stupid_ decision to come on to the kid, Dick is watchful, waiting for what Slade is going to do next. Slade is just hoping the kid doesn't try to take things into his own hands, because that could become...disastrous.

As is, Slade just tries to pretend nothing happened. He pretends that Dick doesn't fall completely still when he gets too close, pretends that he himself isn't hyper aware of any time he touches Dick, and always makes sure the touches are light and fleeting and serve a purpose. He pretends that he didn't royally fuck up.

If he pretends well enough, then maybe they really can move past it.

He implements a schedule. Dick's injuries are limiting, but there is still plenty the boy can do without working out or running laps. So, he gets the kid things to do that require the use of his brain, instead. It's clear how easily Dick slides in and out of dissociation, how much time he spends in his own head as a coping mechanism for all the shit he's been through, and Slade wants to nip that in the bud.

If Dick's mind is active, if Dick is being challenged and forced to think critically, then he'll be present and in the moment. They can retrain Dick's brain, stop him from slipping away so easily.

He gets puzzles, brain teasers, mathematics. He gets cold cases from random places. He even tosses in a few of his own potential future jobs (and a couple of old jobs) to see how Dick would do it, just for fun. He leaves out the assassinations, of course.

Dick stares at him as he explains everything, explains that this is how he'll be spending his time between breakfast and lunch. Dick stares at him, clearly confused. Dick stares at him, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and doesn't say a single word except, "Okay."

So, breakfast is at eight-thirty. Dick then does the work Slade's given him. Lunch is at one.

After lunch, Slade takes Dick to the weapons room, which Dick eyes warily. But Slade bypasses all the guns and larger weaponry, instead grabbing a case of throwing knives and then leading Dick through the doorway that leads to his house's range.

It's not a large one, really only there for practice and light training, but still high grade. Dick glances around curiously and follows Slade over to the end, where the targets are closer for the purpose of knives and throwing stars and the like. Slade adjusts the distance anyway, making it more non-meta-friendly.

"You're not here to train," Slade reinstates firmly as he places the case of knives on the counter and opens it. "Not like that. But you're also not just gonna sit around and let your skills completely waste away. You're right-handed, correct?"

Dick's frowning at him, and considering how close together they are, he's very still. Slade pretends to not notice.

"Bruce trained me to be ambidextrous," the kid says, which is interesting. "But...yeah, right-hand dominant."

He wiggles his right hand as if to demonstrate, and Slade eyes the cast disdainfully.

"Would you say you're ambidextrous enough to have just as good aim with your left hand as your right?"

Dick looks away from him, shoulders tensing slightly. "No. I...haven't give even nearly equal time practicing, the last few years."

Slade pretends like the kid doesn't look like he's waiting to be punished. "Thought so. So, that's what you're going to be doing today. Gonna strengthen your left arm and improve your dexterity, and work on getting your aim up to par with your right hand. How's that sound?"

"Okay," Dick says easily, and Slade breathes against the urge to snap at him.

"Okay," Slade replies. "You know what to do."

And then he leaves him there. He knows Dick well enough to know the kid is going to focus on the task whether or not he's there to watch him, and Slade needs some time to work off his restless energy. He changes and heads to the gym, stepping on the treadmill and working his way up to the highest setting.

When he tires of that, he goes over to the punching bag instead, and takes out some of his anger on it. It's been reinforced after he destroyed one too many and Billy got fed up with having to keep buying them, so it holds up to the full force of his strength.

Next, he takes one of the wooden bo staffs from off the wall and works through some movements, slowly winding himself back down to simpler, slower movements, ending in a few basic katas that help him center himself. He wishes Dick's body wasn't so fucked up; it's been a while since he faced the kid in combat, and he's itching to do it again, even in just a spar. _Especially_ in just a spar.

When he's finished, Slade goes to take a shower, rinsing off the sweat he worked up. Then he heads back to the range to see how Dick's doing.

The kid's very focused when he enters, so Slade quiets his footsteps enough to not distract him, but puts himself in clear line of sight to not spook Dick with his approach. Dick is moving quickly, picking up knife after knife and whipping them at the target down the line. Slade glances over and his eyebrows shoot up.

All things considered, the kid's doing _very_ well. There are divots along the target that show Dick's aim didn't _start_ perfect, but by this point his throws are clustering towards the center, one knife even just an inch or so off of the bullseye.

Dick turns to look at him when he's finished, and there's a wide smile on the boy's face, lighting up his features, eyes shining. He looks alive, looks like _Dick,_ and Slade smiles back before he can help it.

"Look!" Dick says, still grinning, gesturing down towards the target. "I think I'm getting this down."

Slade does as asked, looking once more at the target. It's still impressive, what the kid accomplished in just a few hours. "Good work, kid," Slade says, and Dick beams.

"Thank you," he says, heartfelt.

"Come on," Slade says, now firmly in a good mood. "Why don't you take a break, go watch some TV?"

But Dick shakes his head, smile dimming slightly. "No, I want to keep working at this. I can get this. I _can,_ I promise."

It seems Slade spoke far too soon about a good mood. "I believe you," Slade agrees. "But you've got time. The progress you made is very impressive. Take a break, kid. It's okay. You're probably due for some pain meds, yeah?"

Dick looks at him doubtfully, but hesitantly nods. "I—okay. Are you sure?"

"Positive," Slade says firmly. He doesn't want the kid thinking he's going to be disappointed.

"Okay," Dick says again, and then turns to head towards the target to collect the knives. Slade debates stopping him and doing it himself since the kid looks a little ridiculous heading down the lane on his crutches, but it wouldn't be worth the possibility of Dick apologizing. And it's probably good to have Dick doing things without asking for Slade's permission first, anyway.

When all the knives are back in their proper places inside the case, and the case is back where it's supposed to be in the weapons room, Dick follows Slade back to the living room.

The kid settles down on the couch with a grunt, eyes twitching with what is surely pain, and Slade heads into the kitchen, pouring out a glass of water, and grabs the medication Dick needs before going back to the living room.

Dick takes the water and the pills gratefully, swallowing them down and then downing the water as well. Slade grabs the humidifier from where it sits and brings it over to Dick, who makes a face at the device but doesn't argue, securing the mask over his mouth and nose and then inhaling deeply once Slade turns the machine on. Despite his distaste for the device, some tension does release from his shoulders once the medicine starts doing its job.

Dick's asleep within five minutes, and Slade reevaluates his schedule. Dick's still extremely injured, whether or not he's good at pushing past pain. Maybe spending hours on intense work and then practice isn't the best path. Slade just doesn't know what the best path _is,_ if not this. Dick needs to have some sense of normalcy, some sense of working towards something. He needs things to do, things that will challenge him and keep him engaged.

Maybe that means pushing him harder than his body would like is for the best in the long run. Slade _doesn't know._ He hates not knowing what to do. At this point he can only commit to this path and hope he's not wrong.

His eyes drift over Dick's relaxed form. He's wearing one of the new t-shirts and pants Slade bought him yesterday, and that necklace he put on when they left the penthouse. He looks far more comfortable than he did in the button-down and slacks. Slade's very pleased to see him out of the shit Sionis put him in.

Speaking of Sionis—

Slade grabs his laptop and checks on Gotham. It's been almost two days since he killed the man, and it's sure to have been reported by now. Sionis was a rich, public figure when he wasn't running around playing mob boss, which means his death would be made public. Slade is curious what the police are saying about what happened. Curious what they're saying about _Dick._

It's about what Slade expected. They think Sionis was the target of a hit, the other men who were killed just those who got in the way (technically true, they _were_ in Slade's way). Dick is listed as a missing person, and though nowhere does it say he's a person of interest, the wording makes it clear that they have questions for Dick about what the fuck happened. But the working theory seems to be that whoever killed Sionis also took Dick.

Again, technically true. The Gotham PD seems to be pulling its head out of its ass; he was slightly concerned that they'd be looking at Dick for the crime. That would be an irritant, and stress that Dick doesn't need. Not that Slade would tell him, even if they _were_ looking at him as a suspect. Like he said; stress the kid doesn't need.

Satisfied, at least for the moment, Slade closes out the window and opens a new one to look at potential contracts. He knows he won't be going anywhere anytime soon, but looking at these as if he is makes him feel better than admitting that he's setting aside work that he likes for a kid he doesn't even know is fixable.

* * *

At six, Slade makes dinner.

Dick is quiet and groggy after his nap, but does thank Slade for the meal and starts to eat once they're both settled. Slade doesn't mind the quiet, even if it's unsettling coming from someone whose voice used to seem ever-present. It's only the second day. They'll get there.

"You know," Dick says after a little while, staring down at his plate like it holds the secrets of the universe. He's poking at his food, really just moving it around, and Slade really hopes the kid doesn't think he's stupid enough to fall for the illusion that he's consumed more than just a few bites.

"You know," Dick begins again. "Your son saved my life, once."

"I would hope so," Slade grunts in response, "considering you were on a _hero_ team together. Isn't that the whole point?"

He's assuming Dick is talking about Joey, anyway. Considering Grant actively tried to kill the Teen Titans, he doubts there was much time for life-saving.

"Well, yeah," Dick agrees. Slade can see the barest hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth. "But I don't mean in the field or as—as Jericho. I mean he..."

The kid trails off, brow furrowing, which makes Slade frown.

Dick's focus is a very fickle thing, and this wouldn't be the first time he zoned out mid-conversation. Or as much of a conversation as Slade can get from him, that is. Slade tries not to get too creeped out by it, but he knows it's not healthy. Sooner or later the dissociation is really going to fuck up Dick's mind, if it hasn't already. He slips far too easily into it, if Slade doesn't force him to concentrate. He knows it's a coping mechanism to deal with all the shit Sionis put him through, but that doesn't make it acceptable.

Slade starts to raise his hand to snap a few times in front of Dick's face, but the kid clears his throat before he can, thankfully still present.

"I mean that he stopped me from committing suicide, once."

Slade stares at him.

"I wasn't even calling him," Dick murmurs, oblivious to Slade's stare. "I was calling Roy. But Roy was apparently visiting the tower at the time and left his communicator in the common room while he and some of the team went out. Joey had been in bed, just got up to grab a glass of water from the kitchen."

Dick shakes his head a little. "It was pure chance he heard the ringing at all, and went to pick it up. If he hadn't..." The boy's lips curve upward in a sardonic smile. "Well, I would've been a Nightwing pancake."

Slade continues to stare.

Dick takes a shuddering breath. "He talked to me on the phone for _hours,_ using his voice modulator. About the most random and stupid shit." He huffs a laugh that sounds a little wet. "He always had the right thing to say. He got me to leave the roof—the safe way—and go back to my apartment and get some rest. Then he turned up the next day and we got lunch. Same thing happened every day for the next week."

His brow furrows again. "And then two months later he was dead."

Slade keeps staring.

On a good day, Slade doesn't like talking about his children. Too much dark water, too many failings on his part for the subject to ever be a comfortable one. He'll always appreciate what Dick did for Joey, but that doesn't mean Joey's ever been someone Slade wants to _talk about_ with Dick. Even though if there was anyone he _would_ talk to about Joey, it...probably would be the kid. Someone who really knew Joe, fought by his side, mentored him, was his friend. Was there for his death.

But this—not only is Dick dropping on him that he almost killed himself once, but also that Joey helped. His Joey, his boy, always the hero. Always a good person. Slade is more shocked by the fact that Dick almost killed himself than by the fact that it was Joey who helped.

But he still doesn't want to have this discussion. He doesn't want to talk about Joey, not yet. Maybe not ever. Especially not while Dick isn't really _Dick_ right now. He isn't in the headspace for this conversation.

One day, maybe they'll actually talk about it. About the boy who meant so much to both of them. But that day is not today.

"Why are you telling me this?" Slade asks flatly.

Dick looks up at him. His brow is furrowed as he examines Slade's expression, confused and concerned. "I—sorry, I didn't mean to..." He ducks his head and shakes it. "Sorry. 'M sorry."

Slade sighs and swipes a hand down his face. Right, Dick is definitely not in any state of mind to handle Slade shutting him down. He'll internalize the fuck out of it.

Slade almost doesn't care. He doesn't want to talk about Joey, and leaving Dick to stew and feel bad will take care of that issue. Subject closed.

Unfortunately, he's apparently not _that_ much of an asshole. Goddammit.

"Dick," Slade says, trying to gentle his voice. "Why are you telling me this?"

Dick looks back up at him, hesitant and wary and too fucking breakable. "I just...I don't know. I've never told anyone before. And Joey is..."

He trails off and falls silent, looking down at his plate once more. Slade sighs again.

"Thank you for telling me," he says. Dick's blue eyes peer up at him through his fringe warily. "Joey...was a good kid. I'm glad he could help you." He pauses, and then adds, "I'm glad you didn't die."

"I'm glad you're not dead, too," Dick tells him.

Slade chuckles, amused despite himself. "Well, that's good. I'd hate to think you're silently hoping for my death."

Dick laughs a little and smiles at him. It's small and hesitant, but it's real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Slade's thoughts about Joey in this chapter were inspired by stuff he said and did in the aftermath of Joey's death in New Titans #83. And, of course, in Nightwing #80, in which Slade goes to see Dick in Bludhaven. Good shit.
> 
>  **IMPORTANT:**  
>  So life is about to pick up in a big way (school, etc) and there are a lot of projects I need to work on fanfic-wise as well to meet goals that I want to reach, so this fic might become biweekly updates instead of weekly. It's not a sure thing yet, but if there isn't a new chapter of this out next week, you now know why. Sorry!
> 
> For those of you who like my stuff in general, however, good news! I will still be putting out fics to meet the goals I am _determined_ to meet over the next few months. So if there isn't a new chapter of this next week, there will still be something new by me to sink your teeth into, if you're interested.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who didn't see my message on [tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath), updates are now gonna be on Fridays instead of Thursdays! Works better with my school schedule. This is also officially gonna have biweekly updates 👍 Adapt with me, my dudes.
> 
> And we have new art!! Please check out [this abstract moment between Dick and Roman](https://robining.tumblr.com/post/628256389035409408/i-went-wild-with-some-new-coloring-techniques-and). (And if you want a description of what Roman looks like in this story you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588495/chapters/57571930) 😊)
> 
> Now why don't we go see what Dick's been thinking during all this XD

Dick doesn't know what Slade's game is.

At first, he doesn't care. Roman is—is dead, and Slade is taking him away from there, and Dick just...doesn't care to ask why. It doesn't matter, nothing matters. Who gives a shit? Slade told him to pack a bag and get dressed and then go with him and so Dick did, he followed the orders. Nothing else mattered.

But then Slade takes him to his _home._ Dick can read it in every aspect of the house, in the way Slade acts. They're at Slade's home, and Dick—doesn't understand why Slade would bring him here. Why not dump him with his family? Slade has to want something, right?

The more time goes on, the more confused Dick gets. There's the tour, where Slade gives him far more information than anyone should have about this place, even giving him a glimpse into the security room, if he wants. He doesn't want; he doesn't care about where the cameras are, he doesn't understand _why._

Then there's the bedroom, his _own_ bedroom, with clean towels and new toiletries, and Dick wants to ask. Because this doesn't make sense. What is Slade doing? _Why_ is he doing it? Slade brought him to his home, where there's a room ready for him. And Slade is _watching_ him, waiting for _something,_ but Dick's learned better by now. Don't ask questions, don't speak out of turn. It only brings pain, only made Roman angry.

Slade can be a very cruel man, if he wants to be; Dick doesn't want to risk drawing his anger, not so early on. He's too brittle to handle it. After everything with Roman, after—after Roman's...death. Because Roman is dead. Slade killed him. Dick told him to. Roman is _dead._

And Dick doesn't know what Slade's game is.

Because Slade gave him a room and is making him breakfast and Dick—takes a chance. He asks a question, barely breathing, staring down at the counter, waiting for a reprimand that _has_ to be coming.

But Slade answers. And then allows a second question, even if his answer to _why are we in Kentucky_ doesn't actually give Dick any real understanding of his reasoning.

 _It's better than Gotham,_ Slade tells him. Yes, Dick supposes it is. Slade hasn't hurt him yet. Isn't showing any signs of wanting to. Roman would've already had him on his knees, probably a hand wrapped in his hair and yanking tightly. Bruce would...

Well. Best not to think about his family. It will do nothing but hurt.

Dick's just so on edge, Slade asks him a simple question and it feels like a _trap._ He hates that it does, hates that the very simple question of _coffee or tea_ makes anxiety spike in his chest. He wishes he wasn't thinking about whether or not this is a test, whether this has deeper meaning and Slade will get upset if he picks wrong—so he picks the simplest option. Coffee is just coffee; choosing tea would then mean having to choose a _kind_ of tea, and Dick doesn't have it in him to chance another multiple choice question.

While they eat, Dick keeps waiting. Keeps waiting for Slade to tell him why he's here, what he's supposed to do, what Slade _wants_ from him. He waits for Slade to lay out the rules, tell him what he is and isn't allowed to do, what he _has_ to do. Dick's not in the best shape of his life, but this is _Slade;_ he's never been one to accept excuses.

Will he want to start training? Because that's...that's what this has to be, right? That makes the most sense. Slade saw an opportunity to have Dick under his command and he took it. Dick can't fault him for that. He just wishes Slade would _say it._ This...waiting, it's almost cruel.

Maybe it's another test. See what Dick will do, see if he'll snap, demand answers. But Dick can be good, he knows how to be good. He can pass Slade's tests, if that's the cost of being away from Roman.

Slade _got him away from Roman._ Slade took care of the blackmail. Slade saved him. He...he owes Slade everything. He owes him. So he can—he'll be good. Whatever Slade wants.

By the end of the meal Dick can't take it anymore; Slade's just sitting there quietly, offering to get Dick medication and Dick just...doesn't understand. So he asks, _What are the rules?_

But Slade just makes the confusion worse. _You're not here to train, kid._

Doesn't tell him what he _is_ here for, though. Dick doesn't understand. What does Slade _want_ from him? If Slade would just _tell him,_ then Dick can give it to him. He will, he'll do it, he'll be good, but Slade isn't _saying anything._

He's taking him shopping instead.

Dick hasn't felt this wrong-footed in a long time. He's trying to not let his confusion and anxiety show, but Slade is _Slade,_ and he surely sees it. Maybe it's another test, but fuck if it makes any sense to Dick.

And then Slade buys him t-shirts. Roman never let him wear a t-shirt, thought they were too pedestrian. Button-downs and slacks, that's been Dick's general wardrobe the past three—no, _four_ months. But Slade buys him soft t-shirts and gets him medication and seems to _care_ about Dick taking care of himself. None of this makes sense, but Slade is...being kind. Maybe this'll all blow up in Dick's face, maybe it's a trap, maybe it'll hurt so much more in the long run, but it's _nice._

Dick takes a long shower, enjoying the fact that he can, that there's no Roman appearing for some reason or another. He brushes his teeth with the new toothbrush and new toothpaste; it's a different brand than the one in the penthouse. He doesn't know why the taste of it almost makes him vomit.

He redresses almost on autopilot, fingers fumbling over the buttons of his shirt. He wraps the choker around his wrist instead of his neck, not supposed to wear it to bed. He put it on when they left the penthouse; that was one of Roman's rules, after all. Whenever Dick left the penthouse, he was supposed to wear the choker. He's supposed to follow Roman's rules.

He put it on without even realizing at first.

And he knows he can get rid of it now, but...

But he can't.

He enters his room and grabs the bag he'd brought with him, rifling through the contents aimlessly. His fingers slide across the box at the bottom, reassured by its presence. Roman's last gift to him.

He lays back, fingers rubbing over the choker around his wrist, feeling the familiar scratch of the braiding. It's not comforting, but it is _grounding._ With everything up in the air, Dick could use a bit of grounding.

And then Slade appears, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt for bed, looking so... _gentle,_ and Dick just—

_"I just wanted to say...Wanted to say—thank you. I...you didn't have to—well. You really didn't have to show up. I still don't...Just. You didn't have to do any of it. But you did. So. Thank you."_

But still Slade doesn't answer, doesn't tell him why he saved him, what the reason is. Still Slade remains tight-lipped, and Dick wishes he would just _tell him._ He'll do it, he can, he'll be good. He doesn't want to go back to Gotham. He wants to be allowed to stay. So Slade just has to _tell him what he wants._

And then Slade kisses him.

And it...clicks. That this is what Slade wants. He wouldn't have expected it from Slade, not _this,_ but he's always known Slade held some level of interest in him, so this is just—so Slade saw the opportunity and jumped on it. He saw how well-trained Dick was, how easily he followed Roman's command, and wanted him for himself. That's...disappointing. Heartbreaking. But it's—okay. It is what it is. If that's what Slade wants from him—

Dick can be good.

Things get a little fuzzy after that. He just reacts and keeps going, trying to give Slade what he wants. Because he can do this. This is what he's been good for the last four months. Roman told him so, _showed_ him so. So he can do this for Ro—Slade.

The two men are blending together. Does it even really matter? Dick can be good.

But then the man is pulling away, and that's—that's bad. If the man is upset he'll hurt him or throw him out and Dick is _good,_ he can do this, Daddy he can be good—

 _"Look at me, Dick,"_ the man snaps, and it's Slade shaking him, but Dick just doesn't understand. It doesn't make any _sense._ Slade wants him, just showed that that's what he wants, so why is he—

What did Dick do wrong?

 _"I did not get you away from Sionis so I could fuck you. What just happened was a mistake, and I won't do it again;_ I _am sorry, kid. You don't have to be afraid of this here, alright? I'm not going to hurt you, or use you."_

Dick doesn't have it in him to ask _why_ he got him away from Roman, right then. If it isn't training and it isn't sex, then _what the fuck is Dick good for?_

The second day provides no more answers than the first.

Slade gives him tasks, and Dick does them to the best of his ability, even if he doesn't quite understand the purpose. But he doesn't ask, doesn't push back. He made Slade upset last night, he doesn't want to do it again. Slade gives him brain teasers and cold cases and _jobs,_ and it's just so utterly bemusing that Dick can't help but be the slightest bit _amused._

He does his best. He works hard. Even when his head starts to throb, pain rattling around his skull, he keeps going. He _likes_ work like this, always has, and if it will satisfy Slade then he'll do as many of these kinds of things as the man wants.

 _"You're not here to train,"_ Slade tells him while setting out a set of knives for Dick to train with, and Dick wonders if the man is purposefully lying to him, deluding himself, or has really strange logic.

Dick is, quite frankly, too exhausted to attempt to figure it out. Slade has given him a task, and Dick is determined to not fail.

It's...nice, working towards a goal. Dick used to love training, improving himself and his skills, especially working on his aim. There's something very _peaceful_ about throwing things at a target, especially when you really get into the groove of it. It starts off rocky but Dick improves, even if walking up and down the lane to fetch his knives is definitely exhausting. His head is still killing him and now his body is upset about having been upright for so long and all the movement, but he keeps working. He's _so close._ He can get this down.

Slade telling him to take a break sounds like a trap. Slade isn't one for _breaks,_ especially not considering Dick is so close to the goal set before him. Slade is a machine, never stopping, and demands the same level of performance from everyone around him. Dick hasn't completed the task yet, he shouldn't be allowed to take a break. He doesn't understand _why_ Slade is going easy on him.

But he does as Slade says, and Slade doesn't get upset, so it...must be fine. It's fine. Slade is...good. He's just being—nice. And it still feels like the other shoe is going to drop, he's still _waiting_ for Slade to finish what he started the night before or up the training, but Slade just brings him his medication and lets him pass out.

He dreams about falling without a grapple, and he wakes up thinking of Joey.

Dick misses his friend. Joey was such a good person, a shining example of what a hero is supposed to be. He came to them, a group of complete strangers, in order to save them from his very own father. The amount of bravery that took, the amount of strength of will and _goodness_ —there aren't many people in the world like Joey.

Dick loved him so much. His death was—his death snapped something inside of Dick. Joey was his friend, his teammate, one of the best people he knew. The person who saved him when Dick didn't even know if he wanted to be saved. Kept coming back to make sure Dick was okay. Was nothing less than everything he needed.

And then Joey was dead, sacrificing himself to save them all.

Dick can't even imagine the trauma Slade must carry, having to kill his own son. Joey begged for it, yes, but that doesn't change the fact that Slade shoved his sword through his teenage son's body and ended his life. Dick can't imagine that weight ever leaving.

But Dick remembers what Slade said, after Joey's death. When Dick picked a fight he knew he couldn't win because the grief was just _too much—_

 _As for Joe, I can't think that I killed him. I have to believe I_ freed _him. Otherwise I'd go mad._

Yeah; Dick would go mad, too.

He doesn't know exactly why he tells Slade about that night. He's never told _anyone_ about it before, a secret between him and Joey, a weak point in Dick's life and one of Joey's shining moments. Who else would he tell? Who else _is_ there? And while Slade might avoid the subject of his sons like the plague, Dick thinks Slade would like to know the good things Joey did.

It's nice to tell someone, too. It's nice to let someone know, and not have them judge him for it. Or pity him. Slade just...accepts it. _I'm glad you didn't die._

Dick isn't too sure he's glad about it, not now, not after everything, but he's...glad to be here in this moment. And he's happy Slade is alive, and here with him.

* * *

That night, Dick stays up later than he probably should, waiting. He's tense, sitting in the middle of his bed, eyes fixed on the cracked door. Open just a little bit, letting Slade know it's—okay, if that's what he wants. Dick can be good. Can be useful.

Because if Slade doesn't want to train him and doesn't want to sleep with him, then why keep him? If Dick can't be _useful,_ then why wouldn't Slade just kick him out?

He barely gets two hours of sleep. He's utterly exhausted and drained by the time morning hits.

He knows he has to get ahead of this, stop Slade from reaching the conclusion that keeping Dick around is clearly more trouble than it's worth. Because Dick—likes it here. He really does. Slade doesn't hurt him and doesn't _demand_ anything from him and it is _leagues_ above what his life was like with Roman. Dick doesn't want to be kicked out. He doesn't know what he would do.

He can't go back to his family. He'd be a stain on them, that was as clear as day when he visited. They're far better off without him. And they know it. Maybe not all of them, not yet, but everyone will come to the realization sooner or later, just like Dami. Dick has to stay away. And he wants that away to be _here._

So he has to get ahead of this. Slade didn't like Roman's marks, that was as clear as day. And he didn't like Dick spacing out, which yeah Dick can admit was probably not—sexy. So Dick just has to stay present. He has to cover Roman's marks the best he can, and he has to stay present. He can do that.

And Slade's not unattractive, it's not like Dick's never _looked_ at him before. This could be okay. He has to show Slade it's okay, that Slade can do whatever he wants, that Dick can be useful, can be good. He can be worth keeping around.

He's antsy through the day. He knows Slade can tell, has his eye on him, but Dick doesn't explain and Slade doesn't ask. Dick does more work, and more mini-training. Slade makes them food. Dick takes his medication, and naps briefly before dinner.

After dinner, Slade settles on the couch with a book and Dick excuses himself. He goes and takes a shower, heart way too fast in his chest, lungs tight with anxiety. He can do this. He _can._ Roman had him take the initiative sometimes. He liked that. Slade is a better man than Roman ever could've _hoped_ to be; he'll like Dick taking the initiative, too.

There's a small tube of lube in his bag. He stretches himself carefully, taking the time to do it right. There's a robe in the closet, and he puts it on, examining himself in the mirror to make sure the way he's tied it covers the brand and the bites on his chest.

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He can do this. He's done this a million times for Roman, and Slade is far more likely to be good to him. If this is what it takes to be able to stay here, then Dick will gladly offer his body. He's good at this part. He can do this. He can be good. He just has to _focus,_ make sure he doesn't space out on Slade.

Chin held high, Dick goes downstairs and back to the living room. Slade is exactly where he was when Dick left, sitting on the couch with a book in his hands, his one eye flicking back and forth as he reads.

Slade surely knows he's there, watching him, but doesn't acknowledge him. It gives Dick a few moments to steel himself, squaring his shoulders, and then he strides over.

He forces his movements to be fluid despite how his ankle hates it, pushing himself onto the couch and then swinging a leg over Slade's thighs to straddle his lap. Slade is instantly rigid beneath him but doesn't push Dick away, so it's so far so good.

Dick plucks the book from Slade's grasp and places it to the side, making sure to mark the page, then puts his hands on Slade's shoulders, kneading at them.

"Grayson," Slade says tightly. "What are you doing?"

Dick smiles at him, pulling on his years of charming people. He slides his hands up to cup either side of Slade's neck, rubbing his fingers gently over the nape of his neck. "I thought we could have some fun."

Slade does not look impressed by that answer. He's still incredibly tense.

"Grayson—" he begins shortly.

"It's okay," Dick says, softening his smile into something warmer, more inviting. He can do this. "I know the other night didn't go so well, sorry about that. But we should try again."

"You don't want this, kid," Slade says, something in his voice Dick doesn't quite understand. He pushes past it.

"I do, I _do,_ I want you—"

"No, Grayson, you don't," Slade says, and there's a snap to his voice now. His hands are clenched into fists. He looks angry, or at least irritated. Dick tries to not let it affect him. He can do this. He can be useful.

"I know you want me," Dick says softly. He leans in, pressing a light kiss to Slade's jaw, which flexes. "Even before all this, I knew you were interested. Does it help to know I was looking at you, too? You can have me now, Slade. And I'm ready, see?"

He takes one of Slade's hands in his own and pulls it around to his ass, under the edge of the robe. Slade lets him, and sucks in a sharp breath through his nose when he feels the lube around Dick's hole.

"Kid—"

Dick kisses him and grinds down against him. Slade's hand is cupping his ass now, one of his fingers so close to pushing inside. Dick pushes back against it, encouraging the touch, but Slade's hand rips away instead, and he breaks the kiss.

 _"Christ,_ Grayson," Slade says, exhaling harshly. "You're just— _stop."_

"It's okay," Dick says again. "It's okay—" Slade didn't like _Daddy,_ "—Master—"

Slade goes completely stiff beneath him. His eye turns icy, and it freezes Dick in his place. "I'm going to give you five seconds to get off of me," he says coldly, "before I _throw_ you off."

Dick's eyes go wide. Slade looks dead serious. Dick draws back, crawling to the other end of the couch and leaning against the armrest, facing Slade. Slade watches him, jaw clenched.

"Do you want to explain what it is you think you're doing?" Slade asks. He looks and sounds so angry. Dick has to breathe against the urge to apologize again and again, against the urge to run.

"You want me," Dick says quietly. He can't look Slade in the eye anymore. "And it's—it's fine, if that's the reason you saved me, it's _fine,_ just—just do it already, I can do it. I can be good."

"I told you already," Slade says slowly, tone perfectly controlled. "I did _not_ take you away from Sionis so that I could use you as a toy instead."

"Then what do you _want_ from me?" Dick asks desperately. "Whatever it is, I—"

"I don't want anything from you, kid."

"Liar," Dick accuses. His eyes feel wet. He straightens, shoulders tense. "You—you have to be lying. You didn't kill Roman out of the goodness of your heart, you couldn't possibly have."

"You think me that cruel?" Slade's voice is flat. "To leave you to that fate without a second thought?"

"I belonged there!" Dick shouts. "Don't you get it? I'm _nothing,_ I'm just Roman's well-trained whore and there is no fucking reason for you to have saved me unless there is something you _want."_

Slade stares at him for a long time. Dick's heart is too fast in his chest.

"You got so used to that life," Slade says eventually, every word measured, "that you honestly can't understand why someone would help you leave. I didn't bring you here because I want something from you, Grayson, I did it because Black Mask was a despicable excuse of a human and you're worth so much more than what he tried to make you."

Dick stares back at him, throat tight. He doesn't know what to say.

"You are not just a _well-trained whore,"_ Slade continues, spitting out the words. His hands are clenched into fists again. "Am I understood?"

Dick nods faintly. Slade doesn't look satisfied.

The pair of them stare at each other for a long time.

Dick feels so lost. He feels the weight of everything Roman's done to him. Could it really be so simple? Could Slade _really_ have just saved him for no other reason than he thought Dick was worth being saved? Dick doesn't know if he can wrap his head around that. He's _not_ worth saving. He _is_ just Roman's...

But. But Slade could've used him twice now. Could've done it any time he wanted. But he hasn't. Even with Dick sitting on his lap begging him to fuck him, Slade didn't do it.

"Do you really mean it?" Dick whispers.

Slade's expression softens slightly. He sighs. "C'm'ere, kid."

Dick inches back over to him carefully. Slade lifts an arm and Dick slides under it, curling up against Slade's side. Slade's arm settles around his shoulders, holding him close.

It feels protective. It feels _safe._

Dick closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath, body relaxing. And he lets himself feel safe for the first time in what feels like years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Slade quote about freeing Joey comes from the New Teen Titans #85
> 
> Also I've received quite a few _"Yay Sladick!"_ messages, so I thought I should mention that this is _not_ going to be a Sladick fic. There's a lot of Slade & Dick bonding, and Slade is very important to Dick's story, but this is not building to a romance between them. So RIP to y'all looking forward to that 😆


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank y'all for all your comments last chapter <3 I didn't have time to reply this time, but y'all are the absolute best, and your comments are always amazing to receive.
> 
> Warning for a lot of Feelings and some suicidal ideation.

"I think he loved me," Dick murmurs.

Slade pauses, hand stilling around the knife he's using to cut up the tomato. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees where Dick is lying on the counter on the other side of the kitchen, one knee bent up, the other hanging idly off the side, hands folded over his stomach. He's staring up at the ceiling, a slight furrow between his brows.

Slade debates letting it go; Dick's not exactly the picture of mental health, and arguing every point with him would mean arguing all day every day. He thinks they made progress yesterday, that Dick's finally accepted that he's safe with Slade, but that doesn't mean all the problems have been fixed. Dick has a long way to go before he gets Sionis out of his head.

But this is...big, and he can't let Dick continue thinking that. If he really believes that Sionis loved him, if he convinces himself of that and rationalizes the shit Sionis did—it'll push back healing by quite a while. Maybe even make it impossible.

Slade puts down the knife and wipes his hands off on a towel, then walks over to Dick. The boy's eyes flick briefly over to him, up and down his form as he instinctively searches for any signs of anger or threat, and then seems to conclude that Slade isn't going to hurt him, because he remains relaxed. It happens far more quickly than it had before. Progress.

"Look at me, kid," Slade says, as gently as he can manage while still being firm.

Dick does as he's told, blue eyes sliding over to meet Slade's own.

When Slade's sure he has Dick's full attention, he says, "He didn't love you, Grayson."

Dick grimaces. "But—"

"No," Slade interrupts. "No _but._ I'm serious here. What Sionis did to you—it wasn't the actions of someone who _loved_ you. It was the actions of a manipulative, sadistic, _obsessive_ psychopath."

Dick's eyes slide away from him, something in them going distant, but Slade isn't going to let him retreat into himself, not yet. They're not finished.

Slade grips Dick's chin between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling his face back up to look at him. Dick's lips pinch for a moment before smoothing, and Slade marks the potential trigger for later.

"The fact that you're even thinking this," Slade says, "is because you have some level of Stockholm Syndrome."

Dick's face scrunches up in something resembling offense. _"No,"_ he says firmly. "No, I'm not—I'm—I _wouldn't—"_

Slade doesn't understand the refusal, why Dick is railing against the idea of having developed Stockholm Syndrome. He was held basically captive for four months by an expert manipulator; Stockholm Syndrome develops to protect the victim. It doesn't make him weak.

"You're explaining his actions away by claiming he loved you," Slade says, as gently as he can manage, working to keep the frustration out of his voice. "He raped you and abused you. He treated you like a possession."

"I know that," Dick says, sounding frustrated himself. He's made no attempt to pull himself out of Slade's grip. "I know he did. I'm not saying he was a good person, or that he was right to do that. I'm just saying that he—that I think he...maybe that was his way of loving. He—sometimes he was so..."

He trails off and doesn't finish. Slade doesn't know how to convince him.

"You want to make sense of what he did," Slade says. "It's understandable. But you _can't_ come to the determination that his reasoning was love. I know that makes it easier for you to wrap your head around, but it gives him far more credit than he deserves."

Dick's brow scrunches up. He swings his legs over the side of the counter, pushing himself into an upright position, and Slade allows his hand to drop from his chin, stepping back to give him some room. Dick's hands clench on the edge of the counter, and though his eyes are troubled and eyebrows furrowed, he meets Slade's gaze with determination.

"There was a woman," he says. "Roman loved her, enough that he—killed his parents to be with her." Slade blinks. Well then. "But he was cruel to her, he disfigured her face when she upset him—but he _loved_ her. So what if he loved me? What if he—what if all the stuff he did to me was just how he loves? He's fucked up, I'm not saying he's not. I'm not saying it's okay he hurt me. I'm just saying, _what if."_

"He _was_ fucked up," Slade corrects gently. Dick stares at him, drawing in a breath. "Past tense, kid. Sionis is dead and gone. And alright, say you're right, say he loved you; what does that change? Does that make you feel better about him raping you?"

Dick bares his teeth at him. After four days of Dick being largely docile, seeing this anger come out of him is quite the incredible thing. Slade just really wishes it wasn't over Roman Fucking Sionis.

"Stop saying that," Dick grits out. "Saying that over and over again isn't gonna suddenly make me remember what he did, I already _know,_ Slade. I fucking know. I can't ever forget. And even if I could, I sure have quite a few marks on my body to remind me. I'm not saying he loved me as an excuse, what he did was wrong, I know that, I'm just—I—"

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and sucks in a shuddering breath. Slade waits, allowing him time to gather himself.

"Maybe I deserved it," Dick mutters. "Maybe I—"

"No," Slade says coldly. He grabs Dick's wrists and rips his hands away from his face. Dick's eyes fly open in shock and he jerks back, but Slade doesn't release him.

"Slade—"

"No," Slade says again. "Don't start that shit with me. I don't care if thinking he loved you makes you feel better about all the shit he did, you did _not_ deserve anything he did to you."

Dick swallows, eyes flicking over Slade's face. Looking for any hint of deception, Slade imagines. The kid is so used to his interactions always being clouded by an ulterior motive; might be hard to adjust to the fact that Slade is saying exactly what he means.

Dick droops a little, arms going limp in Slade's grip, and Slade carefully sets them down.

"You really think he didn't love me?" Dick asks quietly.

Slade thinks that he couldn't give less of a shit what was going on in Sionis' head. He couldn't care less whether or not Sionis had some sort of fucked up affection for Dick, if it reached a point that the man would consider _'love'._ It doesn't matter, because that _'love'_ did nothing to protect Dick. Sionis didn't hold back in his treatment. He _broke_ Dick, broke someone he had no right to even _look_ at.

"Yes, I really think that," Slade says, because Dick isn't looking for ambiguity right now. He doesn't need to hear Slade's thoughts about Sionis' fucked up mind and how he wishes he could kill the man again, far more slowly this time. He needs solidness, and that is something Slade can offer.

"Okay," Dick whispers. "Then why did he do it?"

Slade sighs. "Because he was a sadistic psychopath, kid. That's it, end of story."

Dick nods faintly. Slade doesn't know if he believes him yet, but that's alright. The words have been said, and they have time.

* * *

Slade stops short in the hall, unsure of what he's seeing. Because that's...no. Absolutely not.

"Kid," Slade says cautiously, taking a couple slow steps into the room. Dick looks up at him from where he sits on the bed, expression blank, and Slade's caution reaches new heights. "Where did you get that?"

Dick just blinks at him. "Roman."

Slade stares at him. Dick stares back. Slade takes a slow breath. "You're gonna have to give me a little more information than that, Grayson. Considering you're currently holding a firearm you say a dead man gave you."

Dick looks back down at the gun in his hand. SIG P226, Slade notes. He can't tell if it's loaded from this distance. He doesn't appreciate the careless well Dick is holding it, the barrel pointing ever so slightly at himself.

"He gave it to me before he died," Dick murmurs. "Last thing he gave me, actually. He wanted me to work for him."

It's the middle of the night. Dick is supposed to be asleep. Nightmare, maybe? That doesn't explain why the gun is _here._ Did he seriously pack that when they left the penthouse? _Why?_

"I would've," Dick says. His voice sounds thick, like he's been crying or is about to start. "I just—I was so _tired,_ Slade. I was so tired of fighting. I was so tired of it all hurting, of hating myself every moment of every day. I...gave in, at the end. I _gave up,_ Slade. I was gonna let him do whatever the hell he wanted to do to me. I...was gonna let him make _me_ do anything he wanted me to do. I was just...so done."

He huffs a humorless laugh. "If Bruce could see me now, huh?"

"Fuck the Bat," Slade grunts.

He means it, too. He's never been a fan of Wayne's and his opinion has only gone down since all of this. He doesn't care about the reasoning, what kept Dick's family from acting. He couldn't give less of a shit. And if he has it his way, Dick will never go back to them.

Dick's brow furrows, but he doesn't look up. He keeps staring at the gun. Considering Dick was just talking about giving up, this is quickly becoming _extremely_ concerning.

"Grayson—"

"There was this guy," Dick interrupts. His hand tightens are the grip of the gun. "Nicola. He...had feelings for me. He was so—good. He was _good._ He came from such an awful world, but he was..." He shakes his head. "I dreamed that I—killed him. Roman told me to and I pulled the trigger. And I mean it's not like my psyche could get any clearer, after all I _am_ the reason he's dead. And Jack and Joseph and Lou and—"

"Kid, stop."

"So much pain and death and I'm a central point," Dick continues, like he can't hear Slade. "So much...There's nothing good about me. There's..."

_"Dick."_

Dick swallows and finally looks up at him. His eyes shine with tears, but his face is dry. He looks...hopeless. Lost. _Exhausted._

"When you were younger, what did you parents do to help you when you had a nightmare?"

Dick blinks slowly, confused, but he answers, "My mom made me hot chocolate, and my dad let me into bed with them. And Bruce...he'd tell me about his parents. He was so tight-lipped about them usually, but when I had a nightmare or when I was upset...he'd tell me good memories from his childhood."

Slade is only willing to make hot chocolate; having Dick in bed with him sounds like an exercise in self-control and failure, and like hell is Slade sharing any stories about his parents. Not like they'd be happy stories, anyway.

"If I leave you here for a minute are you gonna blow your brains out?" Slade asks bluntly.

Dick blinks again. He looks down at the gun in his hand.

"That's not how I'd do it," he says softly. "Not with this."

There are so many things wrong with that sentence, and Slade is not equipped to handle any of it. So instead of trying, he turns around and walks away, heading for the kitchen.

If Adeline could see him now she'd be laughing up a storm, watching him make fucking hot chocolate for the traumatized hero he's housing. She'd be less amused with how close he came to fucking said traumatized hero not once but _twice,_ but this, at least, she would find pretty damn funny. She'd also probably have a few choice words about how he handled _their_ children's nightmares, when they had them.

Slade sighs, rubbing a hand over his forehead. Thinking of Adeline always gives him a headache.

When he returns to Dick's room, the gun isn't in the boy's hand anymore, instead sitting on the bed beside him. He's not staring at it anymore either, which is great. Though the defeated posture and lost look on his face aren't any better.

"Here," Slade says gruffly, offering the mug of hot chocolate.

Dick takes it automatically, and then stares down at it for a moment before lifting his gaze to Slade's. "This is hot chocolate," he says dumbly.

Slade rolls his eye. "Yes."

"You...made me hot chocolate."

"Yes."

Dick blinks. A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He holds the mug close between two hands, breathing in deeply and humming. "Thank you."

Slade nods sharply. He bends down and grabs the gun, and any sign of gentleness on Dick's face vanishes into a frown.

"What are you doing?"

"You really think it's healthy for you to have this?" Slade asks incredulously.

"I'm not going to _shoot_ myself."

"That's not the only thing I'm referring to," Slade says, "and you know it. Sionis gave you a fucking gun and told you he wanted you to use it to kill people for him; you really think keeping it is a good idea?"

"It's _mine,"_ Dick says. "It was—it was the last thing he gave me, it's _mine—"_

One of his hands has reached up to play with that necklace of his, and Slade frowns, a troubling thought setting in. "Kid, what the fuck?"

Dick falters, fingers freezing. "I..."

Slade takes a slow breath. "You're shitting me, right? You're not seriously wearing a fucking collar. The man is _dead."_

"It's not a collar!" Dick protests, but the words are weak, Dick not even believing what he's saying. "It's...it's just—"

"Why did you put that on when we left?" Slade demands. "Why the _hell_ would you want to?"

"I didn't _want_ to, but there are—there are _rules—"_

Christ, he is so fucked up. And he says he doesn't have Stockholm Syndrome.

"Christ, Grayson," Slade says. "Do you hear yourself?"

Dick looks at him with wide eyes. Slade can hear his heartbeat, far faster than it should be, blood rushing with panic. He doesn't say anything in defense of himself. Slade tries really hard to get himself under control.

"You want the gun because he gave it to you. You're wearing the... _choker_ because he told you you had to. He's dead, Dick. Not only dead, but your dead _abuser._ What he wanted doesn't matter. You wearing that thing is just continuing to give him power over you. He's _dead,_ Dick. You don't have to do anything for him anymore."

"People come back all the time," Dick murmurs. "Why not him?"

Slade breathes deeply and evenly. "Do you want him to, kid?"

"Want him to what?"

"Come back."

Dick sucks in a sharp breath. _"No,"_ he says, voice thick. "I— _no,_ I don't. I...I don't know why I'm like this."

Slade steps forward and puts his hands to either side of Dick's neck, and then carefully tilts his head down. Dick allows himself to be moved, pliant to Slade's touch, and Slade tries to not think about how reckless that is, how easy it would be for him to twist his grip and snap Dick's neck.

Instead, his fingers go to the clasp of the choker. Dick's pulse speeds up even further.

"Okay?" Slade murmurs.

Dick lets out a shaky breath. "Okay."

Slade undoes the clasp and pulls the choker off, shoving it into his pocket to dispose of. Dick lifts a hand to his throat, feeling the still-tender skin with a light touch.

Slade reaches to pick up the gun next, but stops at Dick's soft, "Wait."

"Kid—"

"Just—wait," Dick says. He lifts his head, meeting Slade's gaze. "Please."

Slade looks at him for a moment. Dick hasn't really asked for anything since he got here. Not anything that he simply _wanted._ And while this is still probably in no way healthy, Slade doesn't want to turn Dick down the first time he asks for something that has nothing to do with general living needs.

"Alright," he says, and steps away. "Okay. Get some rest, kid. I'm down the hall if you need anything."

"Night, Slade," Dick says softly. "And thanks."

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

Slade glances up from his laptop, looking over at Dick. He's sitting on the couch with his oxygen mask on, his words coming out slightly muffled and he goes through the process of helping his trachea. Today's the last day he has to use the humidified oxygen; his health is coming along nicely. Sionis certainly fucked him up, but Dick is healing. He'll get past the bastard yet.

"Alright."

"You killed Sal Maroni for Roman, right?"

Slade raises an eyebrow. "Yes." And three of his lieutenants and six of his men. Some of his best work, actually. Ten clean kills, no one the wiser until many hours had passed.

"Did you...did Roman assist you at all?" Dick asks. His posture is coiled tight like he's waiting for a blow, his eyes flicking everywhere but at Slade's face. Slade couldn't possibly guess what's made him so antsy.

 _"Assist_ me? Kid, you know I prefer to handle my jobs myself. And Sionis wasn't really a hands-on kind of guy, was he?"

Dick grimaces, something dark flashes across his face before he shakes it off, going right back to the anxious hesitance of before. "So he...didn't give you anything? Didn't provide any details of how he wanted you to do it?"

Slade narrows his eye. "He provided the blueprints of Maroni's place, and gave a suggested route to get in. Why?"

Dick is close to hyperventilating. He's clearly trying to control himself, counting on his fingers to help himself regulate his breathing, but his panic is still obvious.

"Kid, I can't help if I don't know what's going on."

Dick braces his elbows on his knees and hangs his head, sucking in breaths that slowly begin to even out. "He—it was an exercise."

Understanding dawns. _Fucking Sionis._

"Grayson, you did not help me kill Maroni and the others."

"I came up with the route," Dick responds, practically on a sob. His hands twist in his hair, tight enough that it looks painful. "I told—I came up with how to get in! You—you killed ten people and I made it easier for you."

Slade sighs, tilting his head back. "First of all, the fact that you don't think I could've come up with that route myself is insulting. Secondly, I _didn't_ use that route."

Dick's breath hitches. His hands loosen, and he peeks up at Slade hesitantly. "You...didn't?"

"No."

Dick blinks at him, baffled. "I—why? It was...it was the best path—"

"Because fuck Sionis," Slade says with a smirk. "I'm just petty enough to take a slightly more challenging path simply so that I don't have to use the one he gave me, even if it's the one I might've gone with otherwise. I was feeling plenty petty after seeing you."

Dick stares at him. "Oh."

"Sionis wanted to make you an accomplice," Slade says. "I'm sure he would've _delighted_ in telling you all about how he gave Deathstroke your break-in plan and how that aided in the deaths of ten people, but you didn't impact the job at all. So stop worrying over it, you didn't do shit."

Dick leans back, resting his head on the edge of the couch. He doesn't say anything, so Slade goes back to what he was doing before.

After maybe five minutes, Dick says, "You think it was the best path?"

Slade frowns and looks up. Dick is smiling at him, the look somewhat awkward through the oxygen mask, blue eyes shining. Slade snorts.

"What, so now that you know it didn't help me kill anyone you want a compliment for coming up with a smart route?"

Dick's smile widens. "Kinda."

Slade shakes his head, amused despite himself. "It was smart. Good eye noticing the pattern break of motion sensors around the garden. Would've been a good path."

Dick settles back with a sigh, smile still on his face. "Cool. Thanks."

"You know, if you _want_ to help me plan future contracts, I would happily—"

Dick throws a pillow at his head, and Slade laughs.

* * *

Slade prods at Dick's ankle, ignoring the way the boy hisses.

"This is healing well," he says. "Another day of crutches and then I think you'll be good to walk on your own."

"Thank god," Dick mutters, flexing his toes. "I'm sick of being an invalid. Wanna get rid of my cast while you're at it?"

Slade doesn't dignify that ridiculous request with a response, instead pushing himself to his feet and heading into the kitchen to throw away the empty bandage package. When he returns to the living room, Dick is flipping idly through channels on TV, settling on one station only to change it ten seconds later.

Slade lets the cacophony fade into the background, instead picking up his book and opening it back up. He pauses when he sees the bookmark in the wrong place, and looks up at Dick with a frown.

Without even glancing over at him, Dick says, "Sorry, you were asleep, I got curious, and then I got invested. Forgot to put the bookmark back. You were on page one-oh-three."

With a sigh, Slade lets it go, flipping to the proper page and scanning to find his place, once more tuning everything out.

Time passes, and his hearing clicks back into the TV. The sounds have stopped changing so rapidly, instead settling on one program, and he glances up to see what Dick's watching.

It's a news channel, currently talking about the crime in Gotham. The state of things in the wake of the death of Salvatore Maroni and the "disappearance" of Black Mask, which makes Slade roll his eyes; only Roman Sionis would manage to keep the press from calling him a mobster even after death. It doesn't matter that the police and the heroes know the truth, oh no, Sionis managed to keep his name out of it. Ridiculous.

The news reporter starts talking about some prolific deaths that have taken place recently that are suspected to have something to do with the gang wars and shifting tides. Sionis is mentioned.

Not only is Sionis mentioned, but they fucking announce something that really didn't need to ever be heard in this household.

"...and his funeral will be taking place in two days. I'm sure many people will be turning up to pay their respects. Next we have..."

Slade looks at Dick. "Kid," he says warningly.

Dick's eyes are glued onto the TV. The reporter's moved on now, but he doesn't look away. "I want to go."

Slade sighs harshly. "Dick, you don't want to go to Sionis' funeral."

"I do."

"Damnit, look at me," Slade snaps.

Dick slowly does as he's told, dragging his gaze away from the TV to meet Slade's. His expression is calm, no signs of unrest, and it sets Slade on edge.

"Going back to Gotham is a horrible idea," Slade says firmly. "That place is about as far from good for you as it can get. And going to Sionis' _funeral?_ Are you nuts? No, leave him in the past. It's time for you to _forcibly_ move forward. Going to his funeral is a shit idea."

Dick's expression doesn't change or wilt under Slade's aggressive words. "I have to do this."

_"Why?"_

"Because he's dead and I'm alive," Dick says. "Because he's dead and I told you to do it and I'm _alive_ and I—survived. And I need...I need to be there. I need to see him get lowered into the ground. I need that closure, Slade. I need that _finality."_

Slade clenches his jaw. "Do you understand how bad of an idea this is?"

A faint smile curves Dick's lips. "I know this could go wrong a couple ways, yeah. But you've got my back, right?"

Slade lets out a harsh breath through his nose. "Well if you think I'm letting you go back to Gotham all on your own, you're stupider than I thought."

Dick laughs softly, and then looks away, back to the TV. "Seems like I'm gonna need a suit, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Gotham we go! What could _possibly_ go wrong?


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter a week late? Yes. Do I have a good reason for it? Depends on your definition. But I _have_ put out a fuckton of new fics, so I offer those to you in recompense. Head over to my [works page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/works) and check 'em out XD
> 
> Also! A friend and I created a Roman Sionis/Robins discord server, for all the various Black Mask & batboy ships. If you're interested in joining, DM me on [tumblr](https://boyblunder-thedarkheir.tumblr.com/), [twitter](https://twitter.com/writertilldeath), or discord (withthekeyisking#0874) and I can share an invite with you!
> 
> Also also, we're going to do a [Romin (Roman/Robins) Week](https://romanrobinweek.tumblr.com/) in March! Stay tuned for more info about that :)

"So let me get this straight," Roy says slowly, and Jason suppresses the urge to shift under the weight of his—and everyone else's—stare. "Your working theory is that Deathstroke took him."

Jason nods sharply.

Across the room, Wally presses a hand to his forehead, and Donna's jaw clenches for a moment before she takes a slow breath and lets it out. Garth's expression doesn't shift, but the fingers of his right hand are tapping quickly against his thigh.

"You told us you had him covered," Wally says tightly, eyes squeezed shut. "You said—you had a plan in place, if Deathstroke went off script."

"Wally," Garth says softly.

"No," Wally interrupts, looking up. _"No,_ he told us that he had Dick covered if this shit went sideways. He said—"

"Wally," Garth says again, far more firmly, and the speedster closes his mouth. "Deathstroke isn't going to hurt him."

"You don't know that," Roy says quietly, staring out the window. "You can't know that for sure. This is _Deathstroke_ we're talking about."

"Yes," Garth says, inclining his head. "And if you asked me if I thought he'd torture Dick for money or kidnap him and sell him to—I don't know, let's say _HIVE_ —then I'd agree that Dick was in danger, but not in any level of danger he couldn't get himself out of. And for something like this?" He shakes his head. "No, Deathstroke wouldn't."

"Why do you sound so sure?" Donna asks. "I'll admit, he and Dick have some sort of weird...frenemies relationship, but that doesn't change who Deathstroke is. That doesn't change the danger he presents. How are you _sure_ that he won't take advantage of the situation? Dick is extremely vulnerable right now, Deathstroke could _easily_ manipulate him into something. He isn't exactly a pillar of morality."

"No, he's not," Garth agrees with a slight smile. "But he is a man who patched Dick up after finding him injured in an alley, and who once saved my life and told me he _didn't do it for me._ He cares for Dick, in whatever way the man is capable of caring for anyone. He won't hurt him."

"Why take him, then?" Roy muses, something calculating in his eyes as he releases a slow breath. "If saving him from Black Mask was coming from a place of, uh, _good will,_ then why take him, if not to take advantage of the situation? Why not send him home?"

None of them seem to have an answer, but all of them look just a tiny bit more relaxed.

It's...odd, to Jason, being in this room with the four of them. Listening to them talk, watching the way they look at each other and communicate with the slightest of glances, of changes in tone.

Roy is his friend, and has been for a couple years now. But here, like this, with the others—these are Dick's people. The original Teen Titans, five friends who decided they needed to do more than they were with their mentors, who simply decided they needed to save the world. They've all grown up, all created new lives for themselves, but looking at them now it's like no time has passed at all.

Jason feels just out of step with them, the second Robin instead of the one they grew up with. He's watching people who have been through true shit together, who have faced more horrors at each others' side than anyone can probably understand—

And Dick isn't here. He should be here.

They're looking. Deathstroke covered his tracks well, to no surprise. But none of them have any intention of giving up any time soon.

Suddenly, Roy starts to laugh.

They all turn to him incredulously, a frown deepening Garth's features, Donna's eyebrows reaching impossible heights. Roy notices them watching and clearly makes an effort to control his laughter, but he's failing, eyes shining with tears.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Roy says between gasps for air. "But like—can you _imagine_ if—if Kory was here?"

If Koriand'r was on Earth instead of on Tamaran, she would've killed Black Mask without hesitation the first time the man laid a hand on Dick, damn the consequences. And if she were here now, she wouldn't rest until they found Deathstroke, and then she'd show Deathstroke what, exactly, happens when you mess with the people she loves.

Roy mimes an explosion with his hands, adding in the proper sound effects, which sends him into another fit of giggles.

Against his will, Jason finds himself laughing too, and hears Wally doing so as well. And then suddenly they're all cracking up, all of them crying, all of them just a tad hysterical, all of them needing the release.

* * *

Dick squints out the window, watching the snowy streets roll by.

It is December twenty-first, just past ten in the morning. He is in the passenger seat of a black car, with Slade in the driver's seat. They are in uptown Gotham. They have been in Gotham for a little over fourteen hours. Today is the funeral.

Reminders like that have been helping him stay calm, these last two days. All the reminders of Roman have had him close to spacing out quite a lot, and focusing on specifics helps him stay present.

He knows Slade is worried; it's clear in his tense posture, in the way he grips the steering wheel, in his narrowed eye. He knows it because Slade has been watching him closely, waiting for Dick to snap or break or do something equally pathetic, something that will give Slade reason to call this off and take them back to Kentucky.

So Dick is doing his best to stay calm. It...helps, in a way. Slade's intense concern. Because if Dick is focusing on keeping himself together so Slade doesn't take command, then he's focused and present and not having a panic attack at being back in Gotham.

Everything reminds him of Roman.

The hotel Slade checked them into—he and Roman once attended a party in the ballroom there. The room service they ordered—Dick found his eyes lingering on Roman's favorites in the menu. The restaurants they pass as they drive—Dick recognizes the ones Roman liked, the ones he hated, the ones that gave him the royal treatment when he showed up. Hell, they pass a fucking nice car and Dick thinks about how Roman had one just like that.

Slade goes slightly out of their way to avoid driving by Roman's building, and then again to avoid Wayne Enterprises. Dick pretends to not notice. He's sure Slade knows anyway.

When they arrive at the cemetery, Slade parks on the far side. Dick squints out the window, staring through the light fall of snow to the group of black somewhat in the distance. It makes his heart pound a little heavier in his chest.

"Remind me of the rules," Slade says firmly.

Dick grimaces, but he did agree. Slade had conditions before he agreed to take Dick back to, as he said it, this _"shithole of a city"._ And they were definitely a thousand times better than Roman's rules ever were, so Dick agreed. Probably would've agreed to anything for this opportunity, but he tries to not think about that.

"We're not going to really approach; there's a grouping of trees close enough to see but not really be seen, and we'll stay there for the duration of the funeral before leaving. I have to stay by your side. Don't talk to anyone, it will only invite recognition."

Slade nods, satisfied. "Good. Alright, let's go."

Dick steps out of the car, breathing in the crisp winter air, buttoning up his coat.

The coat and the black suit he wears underneath it are brand new, as well as his knit cap and nice Oxfords. Slade is dressed similarly, though his suit and coat are tailored in a way that helps him hide the weapons on his person. It makes Dick wonder what kind of tailor you go to for something like that. Maybe he'll ask Slade, after all this.

They make their way to Slade's chosen location for them to watch the funeral. His right leg trembles a little every time he transfers his weight to it, but his ankle doesn't throb with pain anymore, crutches no longer necessary.

His body is healing, slowly but surely. The cast on his arm is still obvious, and the bruises on his face and neck are still dark enough to make them instantly recognizable, but it doesn't hurt to walk or talk anymore, and his chest doesn't light up with pain on each breath, so improvement has been made.

Still, he leans against the large tree with relief, letting it support him. Slade flicks a glance over at him, checking for any obvious signs of distress probably, and then seems to deem him alright because his gaze shifts to scan the area. Dick wonders if how wide open it is makes him uncomfortable.

The funeral begins at ten-thirty on the dot. A priest steps up, and Dick can't help the amused snort that escapes him; Roman believed in no god except himself.

Who planned this funeral? Dick knows Roman's will was extensive and very detailed, but that still leaves the job of making it happen up to _someone._ Someone with a sense of humor, considering the priest. And the sunflowers arranged in a wreath.

Dick loves sunflowers. Roman always hated them.

They're far enough away that Dick can't hear what's being said, but he doesn't much care about whatever platitudes the priest is saying anyway. His eyes drift to the casket and then jerk away quickly, jumping to people watching instead.

He recognizes some of the high society folks from all the parties he's had to attend over the years, all of them more or less dressed somberly for the occasion. One of the men is wearing white socks with his black suit and shoes, a fashion faux pas that he's surprised the man's wife didn't correct. An older women has a large broach pinned to her dress, something that glints brightly in the sun, and he squints as he tries to figure out what it is, to no avail. It's a nice red color, at least.

He's not surprised to see these kinds of people here, that they've received an invitation to the funeral of a Sionis and have shown up; it's a name that still means something to all of them, even after Janus Cosmetics went under.

A black spot on Roman's record, but he was charming enough and intelligent enough that he made people still like him after that anyway. Dick wonders how, sometimes. How no one could see the demon underneath the handsome veneer.

He always has to remind himself that civilians don't see the same things he and his family do, and definitely don't have the same experiences. There's no reason for them to consider Roman anything other than a sophisticated gentleman who made a mistake in his twenties. He's been very careful to maintain that lifestyle, just like Bruce does.

An important cover for both of them, and such very different secrets they're hiding. Kind of funny, really. If you look at it a certain way.

There are some reporters present as well, a few of them jotting down notes, others taking photos. One of them is fiddling with his lens, tightening it and removing it again and again. Another looks like she's almost zoning out, nibbling on a pen cap.

There are a handful of other random people too, spread through the crowd. Bright blonde hair twisted up in an elegant knot, red hair braided over a shoulder, a few hats pulled low to protect from the cold.

Carson is there, Dick realizes, as are some of Roman lieutenants. It makes nausea churn his stomach, memories assaulting him. He knows these men, knows their cruelty. How they stood by and let Roman do whatever he wanted to him. How they _helped_ Roman do whatever he wanted to him.

He tears his gaze away, taking a few deep breaths. He can feel Slade looking at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the funeral, locking onto the dark wood of the casket and flinching before looking back to the priest.

They're not burying him in his family crypt. Dick's sure that'll be a source of gossip for a while, but Dick knows Roman never wanted to be buried anywhere near his parents, especially not his father. Instead he gets a gigantic plot in the nicest cemetery in Gotham.

Dick knows it's the nicest cemetery in Gotham because Bruce told him so, when he was nine years old and they were burying his parents just on the other side of the hill.

The priest finishes whatever he was talking about, and someone else stands up to speak.

Dick doesn't recognize him, and for some reason that makes him angry. Who is this person, speaking at Roman's funeral? Why does what he has to say matter? Is he saying nice things about Roman? Is he praising Roman for things he has no right to be praised for? Does he know about Roman's cruelty, and is happily covering it up? Is he ignorant and naïve? Why do his words mean anything at all?

Dick closes his eyes, breathing slowly. He needs to calm down. This whole funeral is a freak show anyway, what does it matter if some random asshole wants to get up and say some flowery words about how great a person Roman was?

The man finishes speaking, and the priest gets up again, saying something else. Then people start to rise and move forward towards the casket, going to pay their respects. Hands linger on the casket, words are murmured, tears are wiped away.

And Dick is moving forward before he's even consciously aware of the decision.

He hears Slade hiss, _"Grayson,"_ but he doesn't stop walking, shoulders squaring in determination. He hears Slade curse, and then footsteps following after him.

"Kid," Slade mutters when he's right behind Dick's shoulder, "come on, stop."

Dick simply shakes his head. He needs to do this. He needs to.

People notice them, when they get closer. He can feel the looks, hear the surprised noises, the whispered words, the clicks of a camera. They all know who he is, of course. And he's been missing for seven and a half days. This is the kind of attention Slade was looking to avoid.

But Dick _needs_ to go.

He approaches the casket, keeping his eyes fixed on it and not looking at anyone else. He knows Slade is watching them all, that he has his back. He doesn't have to be worried about someone trying to get in his face.

It's a beautiful casket. The kind that looks like it costs tens of thousands of dollars, the kind that makes absolutely no sense to buy considering it's looked at once and then covered in dirt, never to be looked at again.

But he'd expect nothing less for Roman, really. The man loved surrounding himself with expensive things, from the sleek cars to the shiny tie pins. Everything always perfect, it always _had_ to be perfect.

He'd be pleased that Dick showed up. He'd hope that this would crumble Dick a little further. He can practically hear the man's voice in his head; _going to shed a few tears for me, baby?_

In any world that Roman imagined him dying before Dick, that is. He doubts the man ever expected that to happen. No, he was always in control; he would decide when Dick died. Nothing less would be accepted.

The tables certainly got turned in that regard, didn't they. It was Dick's word that led to Roman's death. _Dick_ was in control, for the first time in...so long.

It doesn't really make him feel powerful, or good, but it makes him feel...something. Something not bad. Something that can mean good things, maybe.

He places his hand on the casket, over where Roman's head would be. It's odd to think that he's really in there, just a few inches away. Being this close to the man but without feeling him near—

Dick's fingers leave small smudges on the shining wood, and there's something satisfying about that.

He wants to say something, but he has no idea what. His mind is too much of a mess in regards to Roman to have any idea how he's feeling right now, what he would possibly say. The time away with Slade has truly helped, but it's still—not perfect. Not even close.

He's glad Roman is dead, but he's mourning him, too. He wants to spit on his grave, but he wants to cry, too. He's so glad Roman will never touch him again, but he's also wishing for Roman to stroke his fingers through his hair.

It's confusing. It's a lot to deal with.

"Goodbye," Dick whispers, and then lets his hand drop, turning away.

Everyone is watching him, but there's one specific group that catches his attention, that has him freezing in place, unsure what to do.

Carmine and Louisa Falcone, and Lorenzo Maroni. None of them look hostile, Louisa even looks concerned, but fear still has Dick's heart speeding up in his chest. He's responsible for the deaths of two Maronis; Lorenzo must hold a grudge. Carmine must be pissed as well, since Salvatore was something like a friend to him. There's no way they could be happy to see him.

But...they don't look hostile. And then Louisa says his name.

"Kid," Slade says warningly.

Dick glances back to him. "It's okay. Just...wait here. You can listen in if you want, but just—give me a minute, okay?"

Slade purses his lips, unhappy, but nods nonetheless.

"Thank you," Dick murmurs, and then turns around again, taking a few deep breaths while he approaches.

"Richard," Louisa says again when he reaches them, offering him a gentle smile. "It's good to see that you're alright." He sees her eyes slide across his face and neck, tracking the injuries, probably revising the level of _alright_ in her head.

"I...yeah," he says, trying to smile back. "Good to see you, too, Louisa." His eyes flick over to her husband, and hesitantly adds, "And you too, Mr. Falcone."

Carmine gives him an appraising look, glancing over his injuries and then past him, to Slade. There's recognition there, and a healthy amount of wariness. "Richard. Interesting company you're keeping."

"You did well."

Dick blinks in surprise, eyes sliding over to Lorenzo Maroni. "I—sorry?"

Lorenzo's eyebrows go up slowly. "Do you expect us to think that you showing up beaten to hell with _that_ man is in no way connected to Sionis' death?"

Oh. They think Dick hired Deathstroke to take out Roman. That Dick finally had enough of Roman's abusive bullshit, and got the best assassin to do the deed.

In another life, maybe that would've happened. In this one, he supposes it's close enough to the truth.

So he pulls on his best attempt at a smile and says, "I think this is the part where I invoke the fifth amendment, right?"

The three of them smile, amused. Carmine even chuckles.

"Like I said," Lorenzo says, "you did well. That took balls, and saved us a helluva lot of work. You need anything..."

He pulls his hand out of his pocket and extends it towards Dick, offering him something. Dick takes it hesitantly, looking down, and then blinks in surprise at the business card he's holding, and the phone number printed in bold.

Lorenzo clasps him on the shoulder and walks away before he can think of what to say. Louisa kisses him on the cheek and gives him a brief hug, and Carmine shakes his hand, and Dick accepts it all in something of a daze.

And then they're gone, and Slade steps up to Dick's side, a hand softly landing on his elbow.

"Come on," Slade says. "Let's go before the media starts to get impatient."

Dick allows himself to be guided back towards the car, playing with the card in his hands thoughtfully. He hears something like a chuckle from Slade and glances over to see the man smirking.

"What? What's so funny?"

"The biggest names in Gotham mafia think Richard Grayson hired a mercenary to kill his boyfriend," Slade answers as they climb into the car. "You have to admit that's a little funny, considering your identity."

 _Considering your identity._ Like it's a present-tense kind of thing. Like it hasn't been _months_ since Dick did anything at all related to being a hero.

"Don't throw it out," Slade says, nodding to the card. "You never know when that may come in handy."

"The business card of a mafia don?" Dick says doubtfully, and Slade simply cocks an eyebrow at him.

"Yes. Don't throw it out."

Dick hums an agreement, tucking it into his coat pocket and then turning his gaze out the window, leaning his forehead against the freezing glass. It's almost painful, but he doesn't move, letting his eyes fall shut.

The car is silent and peaceful, and Dick opens his eyes when they stop, lips quirking up when he sees that Slade is taking them through a fast food drive through.

"One black coffee," Dick says under his breath, smiling in amusement, which only grows when Slade sends him a brief, confused look.

They head back to the hotel afterwards, bags of greasy food clenched in their hands. It's not even noon and Dick is already exhausted, already wants to go to sleep. Instead he changes out of his suit into something comfier and throws himself down on the large couch, flicking on the TV and pulling out his container of fries to snack on.

After a little while, Slade asks, "So? Did you get what you wanted from this little trip?"

Dick considers the question. He doesn't really know what he _wanted_ to get from attending the funeral, only that he had to. Roman _died._ Roman actually died, single bullet to the head, right in front of Dick. He died because of Dick. In a way, he died _for_ Dick, though certainly not by choice.

And Dick—isn't dead. He didn't die, Roman didn't kill him, some villain didn't take him out to get back at Roman. He survived everything Roman threw at him. And sure, maybe he deserved it all, maybe being _saved_ wasn't ever something he was supposed to get, but it happened nonetheless. Roman died and Dick got out of there and he just needed—needed to see this final step.

Dick has lost many people in his life. Some came back, most didn't. He's old friends with grief.

He can't say he ever thought Roman would die, though. He doesn't know if he's grieving. Maybe he's still in shock, and it'll really hit him one day. But right now, he's...relieved. Because it's over. Roman is over.

"I guess so," Dick murmurs, taking a bite of his burger thoughtfully. "Maybe. I don't know. But I'm glad that I went." He glances over at Slade. "Thank you for taking me."

Slade simply grunts, eating his own food.

After a moment his eyes flick over, scanning Dick. "You look exhausted. Take a nap, if you want. I'll wake you when we have to go."

Dick nods, the idea of sleep sounding extremely appealing. He doesn't feel like getting up and walking to his room though, so instead he just curls up against the arm of the couch and closes his eyes, letting the quiet murmur of voices on the TV slowly lull him to sleep.

He dreams of Roman, a far too familiar thing these days. It's always a roll of the dice whether or not it will be a painful dream—Roman taking out his _frustration_ on Dick—or a nice one—with Roman simply taking care of him. The painful ones are more frequent.

His imagination has far more memories to draw from in that regard, after all.

Sometimes he really is afraid of the idea of running into Scarecrow again. Because if he thought his memories were terrifying _before_ all this shit with Roman—

Well, he really doesn't want to experience whatever the fear toxin might drag out of him, not now.

He doesn't know how much later it is when he startles back awake, a large hand on his shoulder shaking him back to awareness. The serious look on Slade's face brings him very quickly back to full alertness, and he straightens.

"We're about to have company," Slade says, pulling back and heading over to his bag, which he shoves a last few items into before picking up a hand gun and tucking it into the small of his back.

Dick watches, slightly bewildered, but gets to his feet when Slade sends him a sharp look to kick him into gear. He dashes into his bedroom and grabs his own bag, making sure he has everything he brought with him.

He knows Slade set up cameras and sensors around the building when they arrived, even surpassing Bat paranoia while doing it. Dick doesn't know how long they have before whoever it is arrives, but Slade clearly wants them out yesterday, so Dick moves as quickly as he can.

Slade's eyes flick over him when he returns, sharp and critical, and then he nods. "Good. Come on."

He leads the way towards the front doors and pulls the large pair of them open, then stops short. Dick jerks back to avoid slamming into him, and then glances around him to see what made him pull up so suddenly.

And then feels his stomach cramp into knots, his chest suddenly too tight at the figure standing in front of them.

"Hi, Bruce," Dick greets weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently I've started slipping John Mulaney references into my writing XD
> 
> See y'all next time!


End file.
